Get the Girl
by Kurimishu
Summary: The hero always wins the love of his damsel...Always.  A darker look into Alfred's love for Arthur.  USxUK FRxUK
1. White Lie

**AN: **_Really into Hetalia lately. This is a present in progress for my own America 3 _

_A darker look into Alfred's love for his father Arthur. The rating will go up._

_I'm a big softie, so I'll do a softer story as well._

**Disclaimer: **_If I owned Hetalia, USUK would be established cannon. Not to mention have way more screen time._

_**EDIT OF MASS DESTRUCTION: **_For any of you cutie pies wondering why chapter one popped up in your alert instead of a nice, juicy chapter three, yes there is a reason. Two actually.

I hated a nice bit of that draft. It seemed rushed…Because it was.

The most important reason and I can NOT believe no one caught this before I did. There was a phone in that chapter. It's waaaay before Alex Bell time. Silly me. Ah well, stretches. I hope you like this new chapter one better. I certainly do. *blows kiss

**White Lie**

_Alfred is in love._

Arthur Kirkland led his ward down the hall by hand, slow enough to keep the boy from tripping, although his grip was tight, tight enough to have a normal human howling in pain.

_Alfred isn't human._

The two nations rushed across the marble floors of Englands's home, Arthur mumbling curses beneath his breath as blood trailed behind them in unsteady streams. Alfred kept up with his 'father' without any hassle; Arthur could even start running now, and Alfred could keep up, even with the slash across his stomach. Alfred let out a not-so silent moan of pain, which sprung Arthur into action.

_Alfred loves how much Arthur loves him._

England scooped the boy up into his arms and flew down the stairs to the living room where he had hung their coats. With surprising skill, Arthur managed to hold his wounded son and dress them both in the covers while rushing out the door. Of course it was snowing. Arthur held Alfred as close as he could to shield him from the falling cold. It was dark, bitter and black as midnight as the elder nation rushed along the snowy path to the village America called home. It was barely nightfall, dark thanks to winter, and his trail was lit by the lanterns and candles that filled the streets. A human couple quickly pointed him in the direction of the nearest clinic when he shouted his dilemma at them, and, quick as a flash the Brit found himself bursting through the front doors as the man in charge was preparing to leave.

"Mr. Kir-"

"My son was attacked by a bear." Arthur spoke suddenly, his voice steady even as his body shuddered in fear. The doctor turned his attention to the shivering Alfred and quickly led him back into his office.

"I'll have to set up my equipment, go into the room at the end of the hall and set him on the table." Arthur did as he was told, increasing his grip on Alfred's hip as he rushed into the room.

"The doctor will be back soon Alfred." Arthur turned to look his ward in the eyes to calm him. Alfred bathed in the attention, one of his hands buried in Arthur's shirt. He listened to Arthur's comforting words and gentle caresses with a face of discomfort.

"Arfur.." He whined, eyes teary. "It hurwts Arfur." Arthur's body stiffened.

"I know Alfred." The older nation looked close to tears as he set him gently down on the table. "Just be patient. It'll be over soon." Alfred let his tears fall, pulling Arthur closer so the older man had to lean over him to let him bury his face into Arthur's shoulder. England began to sing, combing fingers through wet, blond hair to keep his mind off of the pain. With his eyes closed, the Brit didn't notice the smirk that had appeared in Alfred's lips. The boy held back laughter, careful not to tear his wounds.

_Alfred is faking it._

Arthur held Alfred's hand as the doctor tended to him. The young nation blocked the conversation out, letting his attention stray to his father's expression. His brow was furrowed, his bangs matted to his skin with sweat. His heart was beating loud enough for Alfred to hear, and he was biting his lip enough to draw blood.

_All_ _for Alfred. __**Just**_ _for Alfred._

"He'll be alright then Doctor?" he asked through a pant, fatigue catching up to him at last. The doctor replied with words Alfred didn't hear, and Arthur was made to cease his fidgeting and allow the nurse to tend to his feet. Arthur scoffed. "It's just a bit of snow. My feet aren't going to fall off." Alfred whined softly, and Arthur's attention was off of his own shoeless, frozen feet, and back to his son. "You're doing great Alfred. Hang it there." The younger blond nodded, squeezing his father's hand before drifting off to sleep.

It was three days before Arthur was given a pair of shoes and allowed to take his son back home. In a proper carriage this time, as the doctor had firmly insisted. The Brit was much too relieved to argue.

Arthur was entrancing to watch as he fretted over Alfred's every whim. Thirsty, hungry, too hot, too cold..Anything and everything was at Alfred's doorstep.

"Sleep wif me Engwand?" He asked one night, soaking his words in sadness. Arthur melted instantly as solemn blue eyes met his own. He had run himself a bit ragged the past week, but smiled brightly at the small request. Anything. Alfred could have anything at all.

"Of course I will." He promised as he tucked the boy in and kissed his forehead, leaving only to change quickly into his pajamas. Alfred watched him leave, toying with the bandages around his waist as he smirked victoriously to no one but himself.

_As if Alfred couldn't have flung the bear away. Silly Arthur._

He deserved this fretful panic. Alfred concluded, frowning at the thought of Arthur's pet _frog_, hogging Arthur's attention, craving in madly like an addict craves relief. Alfred could share with the faeries, figured the young nation, but his line in the sand began with France.

"Alfred?" The gentleman returned, slipping into the room and placing a cool hand on his son's forehead. "I've returned." Alfred gave him a weak smile and nuzzled into his hand.

"I wuv you Engwand.." He said as a whisper, watching Arthur blow out the candle and slip into bed with him.

"I'm so sorry Alfred.." he apologized for the thousandth time for nothing, holding his son gently to him. "I love you too, and I won't let anything hurt you again." Alfred nodded, faking another moan of pain. Arthur kissed his forehead again, whispering soft apologizes.

Once again he misses Alfred's not-so secret smirk.

_Alfred is the greatest bull-shitter in the entire world. _


	2. Stick a Needle

**AN**: Hmm..I never like my chapter twos…Sorry if this sucks AND took forever. Sighs…I'll get my ass in gear!

To those who reviewed: I love you all. I don't deserve them! *sobs This chapter is soooo…intensely cute…Sigh. Also, it's pretty obvious who is coming no? Ah well. I wonder if I should start replying to each review… Oh yeah! Side note. Hetalia fanfics require RESEARCH. And math. Stupid math. : P

Also, I loooove when Arthur sings! I'm practically in love with Noriaki Sugiyama. *swoons Or at least his voice. If you let me have my way I'll have the man singing in every chapter of every story I ever have him in.

Would you all like to know how old little Alfy is? Or shalst I keep it ambiguous?

**Keywords for the next chapter:** Roses.

**Disclaimer**: If I owned Hetalia, Arthur would have a lot more sexy crying/epic pirate moments, and Alfred would…hmm..get of his butt and confess? Yes.

**Stick a Needle**

_Alfred is in love._

Whenever Arthur was in his home, but wasn't speaking, or cooking, or generally making his presence known, Alfred found himself terribly distracted by **hate**. It wasn't towards Arthur of course, and to be honest, Alfred wouldn't know for many years just what emotion had plagued him, but without a doubt it was there, festering in the back of his heart and just waiting to be acknowledged.

Alfred will, eventually, decide that hate tastes salty, a strong flavor that demands attention, and more often than not, ruins a perfectly good dish. Arthur is a nice balance to the salt. 'Bland' some might say; Alfred, however, would eventually settle on a toss-up between 'bitter' and 'spicy' to describe being in love with Arthur. The taste is subtle, barely identifiable on the tip of his tongue, natural, as Alfred is only a child, but the taste grows stronger as he ages slowly; his one year was equal to twenty human years. A slow process, but Alfred doesn't mind much, as it stretches his time out with Arthur indefinitely.

_Alfred thinks 'forever' is a beautiful word._

_

* * *

_

Arthur's cooking, while horrendous, was always from the heart.

His father stands at the counter, mixing and tasting, chopping and slicing and trying his best to create a masterpiece of a breakfast for his little Alfred. Occasionally, he would ask America about things he had missed in-between this and his last visit, and Alfred would answer as fast as he could, goading his father into talking more about himself and his lands; the royal family, the weather, the music, anything at all he could think of to keep the man talking and talking.

_Alfred loves the song that is Arthur's voice._

Eventually, Alfred runs of things to talk about, and, killing two birds with one stone, asks Arthur to sing for him. A bit red, Arthur hides a smile before asking if Alfred would like to hear anything in particular. Alfred can think of nothing, prompting Arthur to let the music flow.

**_"Over the mountains_**

**_And over the waves,_**

**_Under the fountains_**

**_And under the graves,_**

**_Under floods that are deepest,_**

**_Which Neptune obey_**

**_Over rocks which are the steepest,_**

**_Love will find out the way."_**

Arthur sings in a sultry tenor, a smile coming to Alfred's lips, the boy resting his head in his arms and soaking in the sweet words.

_**"Where there is no place**_

_**For the glow-worm to lie,**_

_**Where there is no space**_

_**For receipt of a fly,**_

_**Where the gnat dares not venture,**_

_**Lest herself fast she lay,**_

_**But if Love comes, he will enter,**_

_**And will find out the way."**_

Almost finished with breakfast, Arthur's voice doesn't falter for a second. He sets up two plates, keeping perfect tempo.

**_"You may esteem him_**

**_A child for his might,_**

**_Or you may deem him_**

**_A coward from his flight._**

**_But if she, whom Love doth honor,_**

**_Be concealed from the day_**

**_Set a thousand guards upon her,_**

**_Love will find out the way."_**

Sitting at the table, Alfred looks up and smiles, taking his fork without fear.

_Alfred can do anything for Arthur._

"Don't stop!" He begs, pouting in just the right way. Arthur chuckles, motioning Alfred to eat before continuing.

**_"Some think to lose him_**

**_By having him confined_**

**_Some do suppose him,_**

**_Poor thing, to be blind;_**

**_But if ne'er so close ye wall him,_**

**_Do the best that you may,_**

**_Blind Love, if so ye call him,_**

**_Will find out his way."_**

Alfred digs into his breakfast without a single flinch. It isn't so much bad as it is bland; Arthur would sometimes add spices and fix the problem right up. Today, however, is Alfred has the greatest spice.

_Alfred has his music. _

**_"You may train the eagle_**

**_To stoop to your fist._**

**_You may train in veigle_**

**_The Phoenix of the east._**

**_The lioness, you may move her_**

**_To give o'er her prey;_**

**_But you'll ne'er stop a lover;_**

**_He will find out his way."_**

As he finishes, Alfred claps for him.

"Thank you Engwand." He says sweetly, prompting his father to blush and laugh sheepishly.

"Anytime son. Anytime at all." Arthur reaches for a container, offering it to the boy. "How is your breakfast? Do you need any salt?"

Salt…

Without a second thought, Alfred refuses it and smiles.

"No thank you." Arthur tilts his head to the side in question, prompting a huge grin from the American. "It's perfect!"

* * *

Unlike the stories Alfred had been told about his father's home, Alfred's weather was always upbeat and pleasant wherever he went. As they wandered around the market place, the young colony's thoughts wandered to Arthur's lands. How often did it rain? If the fairies and such could dwell happily with Arthur without complaint, surely there were plenty of sunny days as well?

"Engwand, I want cake." Alfred flashes his baby blues as he tugs a bit on Arthur's sleeve. Arthur melts at the look, and offers his hand to his son. Alfred doesn't have to think about taking it and squeezing tightly.

_Alfred loves how warm it feels._

"Yes, alright. Not too much." Alfred smiles, and, having a shop in mind, leads Arthur to it at a leisurely pace.

A picnic is a wonderful idea, and Alfred had brought it up at high noon, eager to spend time with Arthur in the sun, and greedy, horribly greedy, since Arthur had finally returned from war.

"_Alfred…" Breathless, Arthur had scooped the surprised boy into his arms and spun them around, too giddy to be embarrassed. "We won! Oh Alfred we won!"_

_Alfred would never forget that smile._

Three months have passed since England had returned to America, and both parties have been greedy with each other, never being truly sated. A picnic is a very wonderful idea, since they had spent most of their time indoors, just enjoying being together. Arthur held a basket in one hand, filled with all sorts of yummy things, while Alfred's basket held a book and a few games. Alfred hopes Arthur will read for him.

"Is there a particular cake that you wanted Alfred?" Arthur steps up to the display, engaging the shop owner in discussion about the different sweets. Alfred looks as well, inhaling the welcoming smells all around them. Spotting a cake with strawberries, Alfred points it out, flashing the shop owner a smile.

"Aww…Hello again Alfred. I see you brought your papa this time around." He says, offering a friendly smile to Arthur who blushed slightly and returned the greeting.

"Away on business I'm afraid. However, I plan to stay for a long while." Arthur says softly, prompting Alfred to squeeze Arthur's hand in delight.

"I love you Papa!" Arthur melts, returning the squeeze.

"And I love you too Alfred."

With a big smile, he lets the two men talk and get acquainted. His thoughts wander to the rest of the day, his young mind filling up with all sorts of activities. So distracted is the young boy, that he never notices the shop door opening, or hears the footsteps heading towards them.


	3. Blow it out

**AN**: Late chapter is late. I fail at life.

Well..Actually some pretty messed up life stuff happened but yeah…

*sniff Look at all my lovely reviewers and readers..Ah..no wait! Look away! I'm being blinded by their epicness.

These first four chapters really feel like an 'introduction' stage. Hmm…As long as someone's enjoying it my job is a success! Hah, so I suppose I'll keep Alfie's age ambiguous for now. Annnnd…I have epic amounts of Hetalia research to do. Oh yeah, what other Hetalia pairings do you guys like? I am a curious sort.

**Keyword**: Suspicious

**Disclaimer**: If I owned Hetalia. These two idiots would have on screen tied the knot in episode l. Also Kiku would stop denying what happened with Heracles. Heh..Heh-Heh…

**Blow it out**

_Alfred is in love._

To be honest, Arthur Kirkland wasn't usually the type of man that let his personal baggage affect his demeanor around perfect strangers. First impressions are everything after all; a lesson he oft reminded his young ward of at least thrice per visit. And, for the most part, the island nation could maintain a perfect air of dignity and poise in public; he could flash a perfect smile and speak with an attractive flair to rival anyone. He had charmed his way into many agreements, politely sweet talking signatures to documents, and was rather popular within his own society. More or less, as long as the gentleman was calm, he was more than capable of sticking to his own, rather dashing, code of etiquette.

Like all codes, however, there was always one hacker that could smash away the pretty smiles and practiced poise with no more than a glance.

* * *

Arthur's temper could always be ignited by a single smirk.

Enraged, embarrassed and at a temporary loss for words, the United Kingdom storms from the quaint cake shop in a manic rush, chain spewing obscenities at an octave much too noticeable to pass as decent whisper. Amazingly, the frazzled blond manages not to lose any of his possessions as he puts as much distance between himself and the affront to his sanity; a tight grip on a relatively confused Alfred; who is made to switch between skipping and jogging to keep up.

"Papa?" He calls out to little avail, watching the villagers pass by as colorful blurs. The young colony knows not the catalyst of this exeunt, however, he does know well of Arthur's hatred of poor impressions, and wonders silently what he had missed whilst absorbed in his thoughts of whimsy. It wouldn't actually be too hard to get his father's attention however, though he tries to quell his rising curiosity. In reality, the young colony need only resist slightly to being pulled, and his father would go crashing to the ground in a heap of steaming, raging Brit.

_Alfred could do it so…__**easily**__…Not that he would ever do that to Arthur._

Before the boy can open his mouth again, the answer to his questions makes itself **very** clear.

"_Artur~_" comes a voice smooth as silk and as haughty as the most spoiled of spoiled brats from the entry way of the shop. Alfred manages a look over his shoulder, barely catching a glimpse before his father picks up speed. "You are making a scene _mon amour_! What good does it do you to run from me?" The man lets out a laugh, giving a leisurely chase, and it is all the young colony can do to stop himself from crashing into England as the island nation comes to a horridly sudden stop. Looking up at the taller man, Alfred is surprised to feel him shivering.

"Pa-"

"Imbecile." Arthur makes no move to face the Frenchman as he strolls up to meet the two. Francis smirks coyly, reaching a hand out to touch Arthur's shoulder before it is slapped away harshly, cold, emerald eyes finally meeting his own. The two men stare each other down fearlessly, centuries of conflict fueling their mixed signals and heated glares. The villagers begin to scatter now, Alfred watching from his vantage point behind Arthur, gazing up at his father's rigid form in something akin to awe, momentarily unaware of a deep pain growing deep within his gut. Francis, of course, is the first to even remotely soften his gaze, opting instead to brighten his pretty face with a more common, lecherous smile.

"What was that? I did not quite catch it." Arthur fights off a powerful twitch, loosening his grip on Alfred's wrist before sneering at the elder nation.

"I called you an **imbecile** frog. Ya goin' deaf in your old age?" France twitches openly, smile faltering for only a second. The youngest of the blondes grips Arthur's pant leg, feeling a bit woozy but keeping it to himself.

"_**Non**_." The Frenchman pauses, as if forcing himself to shut his mouth before sighing and trying again. "We need to talk." He says softly. Arthur's brow furrows in anger, though the man manages to keep his voice strong and steady.

"I have nothing to say to you." He replies curtly, although the look in his eyes says otherwise. "Why are you even here Francis? This is **my** colony." Francis' sky blue eyes leave Arthur's for a moment to give a considering look to the young boy beside him.

_Alfred has no name for the feeling that shoots throughout his entire body. _

"_Bonjour_ Amerique. 'Ow 'ave you been?" Alfred stares back warily, nodding gently in acknowledgement before moving a bit further behind his father. Francis smirks at this, reaching out a hand to pet the boy on the head. Arthur backs them away with a hiss.

"Do **not** touch my son Francis. Answer my question." Francis, looking for all the world like he wanted to start up another war with Arthur out of playful tradition, bit his lip and held it back, surprising both father and son greatly. For as long as Alfred had known Arthur, he had also known Francis. They had fought over him harshly with violent bursts of hate and war that had finally ended when Alfred had chosen to be with England. Francis had, after getting over the rejection, visited the young America under Arthur's supervision from time to time. While in his home, both men picked pointless fights and bickered constantly, nitpicking and starting fights over and over. It was a hate-hate relationship that brought down mountains when the two got carried away…For the most part anyway. There _were _moments, if Alfred thought about it, when they _had_ been cordial with each other. Times when the words were not so heated, and the looks not harsh in the least. Soft even… It was these bursts of friendliness that had always confused Alfred, who was too young to understand mixed signals.

He hadn't seen Francis in a long while, not that he thought about it too much. It had been five years total since the Frenchman had last been in Alfred's house, when Alfred had been recently been released from the doctor's, and Arthur had forbade any visitors for a good long time. He'd still sent letters, which Arthur and several villagers had helped the boy read and respond to, so the lad at least had superficial knowledge of what his father's rival had been up to.

_Alfred hadn't found time to care._

France was being weird though, biting his tongue instead of engaging England in the violence and petty banter they so often partook in. It was freaking both English speaking blonds out something fierce.

"I am not 'ere to try 'an fight you for Amerique, Angelterre." Francis's eyes lock once again with Arthur's as he speaks. "It is just as I said. We need to talk." Arthur snorts, not lowering his guard for a second.

"Why come across the ocean? Why not wait till I returned?" Alfred frowns at this, the tight knot in his stomach growing painfully tight. Biting his lip, Alfred nuzzles against Arthur's leg and mewls, taking hold of Arthur's hand and squeezing it.

Arthur makes sure to squeeze back.

"And then what? 'And you another letter to burn?" He holds up a thick envelope, burnt until not a word was legible. "I left 'ome after what was left of my letters were returned to me in crates." Arthur grimaces, not wanting to hear this. "You're boss tells me you 'ave returned to Amerique, so I followed to finish this conversation face-to-face."

"Well now." Arthur pauses, a bit surprised to suddenly have to play the villain. "It is a shame, but you are going to have to leave with nothing." Fran frowns, taking a confident step towards Arthur, his eyes burning with blue fire. "I-I have no desire to hear a-any excuses your horrid mind can cook u-up." And another. "Fr-Francis.." Al clings to Arthur's pant leg, feeling suddenly very sick as Arthur backs them away again.

"Am I exiled forever then Artur?" Francis asks, he voice riddled with the strain of a final nerve starting to snap.

"You certainly deserve it." Says Arthur quietly, although there is less force in his words than before.

"You stop speaking to me for two years," Step away. "Burn my letters," Step forward. "An' run back to little Amerique instead of letting us just talk." The Amerique in question blanches slightly, vision blurry, and unable to get the attention of the adults so deeply enthralled with each other. Arthur's eyes show clearly that his resolve is melting, while Francis' brim with naught but rigid determination as he comes closer.

_Alfred's pain gets worse. _

"Francis," Is getting too close, being too unusually considerate and serious for Arthur to simply brush away or send back home without a fight. "You are scaring Alfred." A fight he seems _more_ than willing, "Just leave alrea-" to start and finish.

"'Ow am I supposed to fix **it**," Arthur stops backing up; despite the ample space he has to run. "When you won't even let me," he reaches a hand out again, fueled on when the Brit doesn't deny him the privilege this time. "Touch you."

Ah…So that was it.

It all seems to happen at once; Francis' hand slips softly up the side of Arthur's face, cupping the cheek gently, Arthur's eyes finally softening in return, when a sharp cry of pain jolts both men out of their stupor. To England's horror, America has fallen to the floor holding his stomach and sobbing softly.

"Alfred!" He drops down to his knees too quickly to be human, the baskets forgotten by France's feet, and pulls his son quickly into his lap. "Is it here?" He asks knowingly, touching the spot on Alfred's stomach that had cause him so much terror only five years ago. Alfred leans into the cool, soothing touch, nodding as best he can. With that being all he needs, Arthur picks his son up, as well as the baskets, knowing what to do. "We need to leave Francis; Alfred is having an ache from all the excitement." The words are rushed, the worried love of a parent, which France is not ignorant to, his mind forming something wicked.

"We're are you going?" He says slowly, stepping around Arthur casually. "I will join you." Alfred groans again in response, prompting Arthur to try and start walking. Francis smirks, stepping in England's way and staying there, moving to block him when he moves. Arthur huffs.

"Francis move. I need to go. And **you** need to go **home**." Fran shakes his head, moving sweat matted hair out of England's eyes and pulling a basket from the shorter blonde's grasp discretely.

"Non. We still need to talk. And I will help with Amerique." Alfred squirms in pain as the conversation persists.

"Papa-" he whines, the pain starting to burn.

"Francis." Arthur hisses.

"Where is it?"

"Francis I swear to God,"

"Papa!"

"Just tell me _mon amour_."

"This is **not** the time!"

"Arthur!"

"Then when is?"

"Arthur!"

"**Move. **"

"Artur.."

"PAPA!"

"**MOVE!**"

"**Non**." Both men glare harshly, Alfred's pained sobs growing louder and louder. Feeling cornered, England broke the gaze to coo comfortingly to Alfred, worrying his lip as the boy squirms fitfully in his arms. "I can promise you _this_ Angelterre." Says France a bit coldly. "We **will **'ave this talk. It is just a matter of when." The look is his eyes are concrete, lidded with a rare authority he rarely uses, let alone on the island nation. Arthur shivers from it, knowing full well that he has lost this one.

"Fine. You can have your bloody talk." He motions the direction with a nod of his head. Bottom of closet hill. Near the river. Get the hell out of my colony afterwards." He stomps past France as the older nation finally steps out of his way. Alfred watches France from over Arthur's shoulder, the pain easing as they put space between them.

"I will meet you there soon _mon amour_~" says the same silky voice that had caused it's intended so much turmoil.

"Drop dead!" Arthur calls back, picking up the pace as France walks in the opposite direction.

Bloody hell.

* * *

When Alfred wakes, it is to everything he loves at once. His eyes open slowly, shutting quickly as the sun that had been warming his skin lovingly is just a bit too bright on his sleep sensitive baby blues. The wind is slight, almost non-existent in comparison to the wonderful sun, but Alfred finds the gentle, gentle breeze soothing to whatever remained of the sickness sleep hadn't cured. As he wakes more, the boy realizes he is lying on the grass beneath a great oak, the sound of crystal clear, running water somewhere to his left. He inhales, and is instantly taken over by the overwhelming scent of flowers. As a boy of nature, he can identify them all with ease, settling on the nearby aroma of roses. Oh yes. Intoxicating. The smell comes from his right, and eager to see his favorite flower, the young America turns and peeks his eyes open, only to gasp in childish awe.

It is only now that Alfred realizes that there is a larger, comfortable body beside him on the oh-so comfy ground. Arthur lies next to him sleeping soundly, one arm beneath Alfred's head as a makeshift pillow, the other draped over the boy's waist protectively like an Arthur blanket. The man has a smile on his lips, and Alfred's lips slip into one as well once he hears a faint tune coming from England lips. He even sings in his sleep eh? Giggles leave the boys lips at this, dying down shortly after as the wind picks up, prompting an immediate emergency snuggle into the warmth that is his father. Instinctively, the slumbering Brit wraps his arms around his son tightly, welcoming him in. Feeling his drowsiness return, the only thing keeping Alfred up is the suddenly intense smell of roses. It takes a moment for America to realize that the roses are coming from Arthur himself, and after a quick investigation, Alfred notices that Arthur has been sprinkled with rose petals. Tons of them.

Such a fairytale nap he would be taking, but the boy doesn't mind, and drifted back into a wondrous slumber.

* * *

_Alfred wonders if he can sleep like this every night._

"Alfred…" there is a soft kiss to the top of his head, and Alfred wakes this time to a warm smile and even warmer, emerald eyes. "Do you feel better?" he asks softly, obviously having had woken up recently as well. The boy nods, yawning softly. "That's wonderful."

"What happened Arthur?" Al asks softly, feeling no need to move from his rather choice spot. Arthur tucks some hair back from Alfred's face, resting the same hand on the boys cheek before answering.

"You're stomach hurt again," He begins. "And we fell asleep waiting for Francis."

"Why does my stomach hurt so bad sometimes?" Arthur pauses, unsure.

"Not sure…It started after the bear attacked you." At this, Alfred lets it drop, burying his face in England's chest to hide a rather vicious smirk.

_Alfred hadn't thought about that for an entire year. It's still funny._

They lie there for a while, chatting aimlessly about things; dreams and such, what they thought they meant, and what Arthur's fairies might say they mean. Giselle for example, who was Alfred's favorite from Arthur's tales of whimsy, was an optimistic fairy, and would try to find the best possible outcome for the dreams, while Anastasia, Giselle's opposite, would often try to convince the dreamer that death was imminent. Enamored, Alfred asks when he will be able to meet Arthur's special friends, the ones Arthur was so very fond of. With a delighted smile, Arthur promises he will meet them once Alfred is old enough to cross the sea.

"Promise?" He asks eagerly, eyes brimming with all the hope in the world. Melting, Arthur promises, receiving a vigorous hug and an announcement of love. With a smile, Arthur sits up, taking Alfred with him.

"I love you too Alfred." He stretches, showering rose petals all around. "What…? What in the world?"

"So much love non? Is there any space in this circle for _moi_?" Father and son turn to see Francis leaning against a nearby tree. Arthur frowns, glaring slightly.

"Absolutely not. Thank you for not waking us up. The food is probably ruined by now." Alfred groans loudly, crossing his arm with a pout. A quick laugh follows from France, who motions for them to turn around. As they do, both gasp in delight at the full banquet Francis had bought and set up recently.

"Not quite." He states, his voice teasing. Arthur fails to hear him over his growling stomach, and as Alfred quickly finds something to dig into, England is stopped when France slips a hand over his eyes, pushing something into his hands. "For you." He smiles lightly when Arthur yanks his hand away.

"Don't touch me…f..r…o..g…" Arthur's delight is palpable as he sees what Francis had bought him. Roses. His and Alfred's favorite. Various colors and sizes and oh the bouquet was huge.. "Oh _Francis…_These are _**beautiful**__._" He takes them and inhales, blushing slightly from his own happiness. Alfred watches Arthur's smile grow and stay put, even when France inserts a snide commentary and how much loving the gift made him such a softy. "Be quiet. You're ruining it for yourself fro…Francis." He corrects, looking up to meet eyes with Alfred. "Alfred, which do like best?" Unsure what feeling was swimming around inside of him, Alfred brings his cookie over to Arthur and points to a white rose in the center, which Arthur promptly removes and kisses, giving it to his son who manages a smile despite the odd feeling in his gut.

"Thank you Arthur." His eyes meet Francis' prompting a question he hadn't known he'd wanted to ask. "Papa is France staying for the picnic?"

The one that was just for them…?

Arthur glances at the Frenchman, sighing in defeat and nodding.

"Only because he's cheating with these." He says with faux bitterness, leaving Alfred with an odd feeling as the boy finds a spot on the cloth, quickly distracted by the prospect of food, and happily replacing unknown with hungry. Arthur inhales the flowers again, not noticing the happy smirk on the cheater's face.

"Of course mon amour." He moves to help Arthur stand, and once on his feet, Arthur looks him down seriously.

"We'll talk. As much as I do not want to. But not until we get home. I want a nice day out. Hell, a perfect day out. Are we clear?" France, equally serious, nods.

"Crystal." He promises, motioning that Arthur should pick a seat on the large picnic blanket. Arthur obliges, sitting beside his son and smelling the flowers again.

Mmmmm…Bloody cheater.


	4. Lies Taste Like Wine

**An: **Fair warning people. –Puts on helmet- This is gunna be a looooong ride!

**EDIT: THIS IS CHAPTER FOUR NOW PEOPLE. OK? OK.**

* * *

**Lies Taste Like Wine**

_Alfred is in love._

It is pitch black by the time the trio returns home.

Arthur walks several paces ahead, leaving the Frenchman to carry everything aside from Alfred; sound asleep in his father's arms. If Francis wants to complain, he does it mentally, memorizing the path they take back to the large manor Arthur had had built for America some time ago. It is nothing compared to the homes he has in England, certainly not the villa he and Francis have-HAD-in Paris, but the boy had been delighted by the overall wood décor. Humble furnishings adorned every nook and cranny. Home arts and crafts decorated walls and tables, things Arthur had absentmindedly forgotten to clean up before they had left that morning were lying harmlessly on the couch, and he made a mental note to get that sorted out before breakfast. The things left there for Arthur's visits; his reading table and chair, his spare needlework's and books light years away from Alfred's reading ability, manage not to stand out, taken well care of when England was away.

Arthur always appreciates that.

Leaving Francis to his own devices, England carries Alfred upstairs and down the hall to the boys bedroom. It is dark, lit only by the dim moonlight from the window, but Arthur has no trouble setting the boy down on the bed and locating his pajamas.

"Good night Alfred." He whispers after the boy is changed and all tucked in, pressing a quick kiss to the boys cheek and heading out to face the demise of his sanity, shutting the door behind him.

When Arthur returns to the kitchen, he is met with the welcoming aroma of Earl Grey; bitter but warm. Captivated, he follows the scent to see Francis fixing up the second of two steaming hot cups. Passing through the threshold, Arthur catches the dead man's attention; calculating blue eyes glancing to and away from his figure without a word; giving him time to sit and settle in. Arthur wrinkles his nose in disdain, remembering just how well France knew him; how to work his nerves to his advantage, what buttons to push and certainly how **hard** to push each and every one to get Arthur right…Where…He wanted him.

That was the trouble with best friends after all.

They make the very _best_ and **worst** of lovers.

'Cheater.' Arthur thinks bitterly, moving to settle down in the candle-lit room with as much of an open mind as his drowsy haze can conjure up. Reaching his usual chair, the Brit discovers that it has already been pulled out for him.

Son of a-

Arthur sits without huffing, unwilling to stoop to such childish actions, but determined to remain as angry as possible.

Romantic gestures be damned.

The Frenchman, who had helped himself to the messy haired blondes' kitchen and all its wares, sets a warm, white tea cup atop a small, matching saucer, placing it in front of the still rather leery Brit before taking a seat across from him at the smaller of two circular tables and waiting for Arthur to be ready to begin. Their eyes meet for a moment, Francis' flashing with something foreign. They are soft…

Patient…Attentive even...

As if,…As if Francis was a halfway decent boyfriend…

Pfft. Bloody rubbish.

England indulges his urge to glare at the rather suspiciously subdued Frenchman, who sips his own tea while watching the younger nation stare at him with narrowed eyes. Long seconds pass; butter knife tension, and Francis sits quietly, still waiting for Arthur to decide that **he** is ready. Like a true, bloody gentleman.

Arthur wants to clock him in his ugly, wine sucking face.

Francis should thank the heavens above that Alfred is asleep, and Arthur is above waking the poor lad up after such a lovely outing. Well…Lovely for some people. The picnic had proceeded without a hitch. Francis' cooking was flawless of course, the flowers had not left Arthurs side, {although, he had traded a few with Alfred in exchange for a few rather beautiful wildflowers…} and are now carefully arranged in a vase in the front room.

Right beside Arthur's reading chair. Therefore, England couldn't **not** see them.

Alfred had been a wonderful distraction from the tension, requesting silly things from Arthur {like more singing. Really now, the lad just loved it when he sang…Not that the Englishman minded…m-mind you…} and indulging the adults in several games. Arthur had delighted in this despite himself, having not played hide-and-seek in ages. {He had been surprised at how quickly his son could find him…Although he never had much luck finding Francis…} The three had spent the afternoon entertaining Alfred, and by nightfall Arthur had told a long story to his son until sleep took the boy, and he passed out in Arthurs lap.

It had been a nice day out. Hell, it had been a **perfect** day out. And thusly, Arthur would have to allow Francis his talk. He did _not,_ however, have to make this easy for Francis, enjoy any part of this, or even alter his decision in the slightest.

And he sure as shit didn't _intend_ to either.

Of course, if France _**wanted**_ to look after him like a lovesick puppy for a while…There was certainly nothing wrong in taking him up on his offer was there?

Nope. Didn't think so.

Moving his gaze away from Francis', Arthur sniffs disinterestedly at his tea, picking it up and cooling it down proper out of courtesy and beloved addiction.

"Hmph." He sips the brew quietly, letting the warmth run its course throughout his veins. It's lovely. Smooth and strong, with just a slight bit of milk. Exactly the way he likes it best. {But of course the man knew how to fix Arthur a bloody cup of Earl Grey, so no points for that.} If Francis is worried by Arthur's lack of vocal approval he doesn't show it, and simply waits and waits as England takes his sweet, slow time finishing his first cup. In fact…

Arthur feels a slight rush of pleasure from making Francis sit there in awkward silence, eventually making a game out of doing everything as slooowly as possible without meeting his elder's rather intense, prodding gaze. Ten minutes in total pass before Arthur sets down his cup and motions silently that he wants a refill. France obliges with equal silence, and Arthur has to resist being impressed by the other man's patience with his immature spite. As soon as the cup is full, Arthur sets to enjoying it, deciding Francis could wait another two minutes or so more.

About fifteen minutes later, Arthur looks up from his third cup and sends Francis a look of boredom.

"Speak." He demands in a rather monotone voice, hiding his smirk when the Frenchman blinks in surprise.

"Do you…" he begins warily, knowing to tread carefully. "Do you not wish to yell at me?" Arthur can't hold back a curt chuckle. Silly frog.

The things he wants to do to France would have Ivan fleeing in terror and crying to Belarus for comfort.

"_**Francis**_." His sips menacingly. "I would like very much to yell. I would like to throw things at you and aim them just so. However," He pauses, and, while not for effect, the sudden silence gives off a rather dubious aura. France hides his shudder. "Alfred is sleeping. He's been having issues with nightmares and ghosts as of late, and I have no intention of ruining a good night's rest for him." The slight fray of France's nerves does not lessen.

"Makes sense." He replies, and Arthur nods boredly, motioning France hurry it up.

"Yes. Now speak. State your case before I toss you out on your arse." The elder nation sighs before clearing his throat and sitting up straight. Arthur appreciates the added thought, but covers it up by taking another sip of perfect tea.

"Very well. You are upset because of my behavior during the war—non?" Arthur glowers at him harshly before Francis can continue.

"No. I am-" Arthur is cut off by a raised hand.

"Wait a moment. I misspoke." Arthur snorts, letting him proceed. "You are upset because I was unfaithful." Emerald eyes flash to toxic green for a brief moment before the younger opens his mouth again.

"It is not just the _infidelity_ Francis. I **know** quite well how much of an unrefined, undignified, perverted-"

"_Mon amour_-"

"**Harlot** you are, and always will be. There has not been a single second between us that I believed you were faithful to me," he pauses only to take a breath, having had spoken too fast. "I never once doubted that the only time you weren't sleeping around was when I was directly in your face." He stops again; face flushing in anger as he remembers. "And sometimes not even then." Frances looks for a moment as if he wants to disagree, to prove to Arthur that he isn't what he says he is. Arthur doesn't notice, shakily setting his cup back to the saucer as delicately as possible. "Am I wrong?" Arthur asks after a while of France just staring at him, his own green eyes solemnly begging for the answer to a question of which he already knows the answer.

"You are not wrong." He admits, not missing how much the island nation tenses up.

"I bloody knew it. I always _knew_ I was nothing to you." He can't help how his shoulders slump at his own words. "But that brings me to my point…I already knew that you were a phi'landering, sex crazed good-for-nothing." France looks a bit offended at this, and it is only the bit of him that truly wants to be freed from his exile that clamps a hand over the rest of him; the part that had a few choice words to snip back at his 'wounded' ex.

"You wound me Arthur. Get to it why don't you?" He allows himself to say, ruffling the deflated feathers Arthurs attitude was sporting.

"It was the **day** frog." He spits. "Do you not remember what was so bloody precious about **that** day?" To be honest, Francis' memory of the day Arthur had left him was a bit hazy. It had been stupid to demand Arthur speak with him without putting thought into why he was in trouble in the first place. The rest of the war, matters at home, and tracking the elusive island nation to have said talk had distracted the Frenchman a bit too much.

Arthur, as it turns out, is **very** good at vanishing.

Francis, however, is just _slightly_ better at hunting.

Still, it had taken a great deal of time to track him down to Virginia, a nice bit of snooping to figure out what village he had hidden _Amerique_ in, {Since they had _conveniently_ moved since the last time France had visited.} and lots of careful persuading to be allowed to have this conversation at all. {Technically, he was three levels above groveling, and if Arthurs eyes didn't tone down the toxicity…} And now that he is here…Francis realizes that he has forgotten to figure out just why he had been nursing a black eye and tracking down his ex in the first place.

For the first time in a long time, Francis feels uncharacteristically foolish.

Time to think.

There had been wine involved, and women…Arthur's face stained with tears just before the tiny power house had sent a vindicated fist crashing into his- Oh..Oh! That's right..

Arthur had been crying **before** he had pummeled Francis to the ground…Which meant..

"_Oui bien sûr_," he says confidently, unaware that he would soon regret his next statement with every fiber of his being. "It was ze day _Marielle douce_ was taken from us."

Without warning, Arthurs eyes flash with heartbreak, rage and self-disgust all at once; and it is all England can do not to crumble into himself before the elder nation.

He does not like to remember.

* * *

Marielle Bessette had been Arthur's first and probably only human wife. She was a curious and intelligent girl, pretty in a wallflower way; with soft brown hair and blue eyes. When they had met outside of one of Francis' cafes, she had been virtually homeless.

"_I take thee, to be mine."_

He had been sightseeing, enjoying every minute of his time in France, and reveling in the fact that the frog would never receive the pleasure of truly knowing just how much he admired the elders land. As if by chance, England happened to look up in time to catch the eye of a girl in near rags across the street with nothing in her arms but what looked to be a bunch of flower wreaths. He didn't stop her as she crossed the street and introduced herself. With a hopeful flourish, she had begun a rather meager hard sell for the wreathes; speaking softly and standing a respectable distance away. He hadn't declined the offer outright, unable to pinpoint the cause of his vicious curiosity, instead insisting she sit and engaging her in mindless small talk. She was pleasant to talk to; she laughed at his jokes with a quiet giggle, gasped during exciting talks and managed to enthrall him with a story or two of her own. A wonderful audience of one.

How they had talked until midnight he would never know, neither how he had managed to buy her lunch, find her lodgings for the night, or purchase every single wreath without a second thought. He hadn't minded as sleep had found him that night, nor did he mind spending the remainder of his trip by her side as if entranced. If she had grown irritated by his presence, she didn't say a word, both parties accepting the other as a part of their lives with terrifying ease.

It was too easy to be together, too enjoyable, too…Perfect. She had a talent for crafts, evident by the homemade wreaths, and she taught him the finer points of needlework and such. He taught her about his country, telling stories she didn't know were from his own past. Neither of them could cook, although both could choke down whatever horrid, burnt mess the other produced with a convincing smile. Time seemed to fly at a wonderful pace now.

They were sinking fast.

England should have known they were in too deep when his boss had demanded his return three years later and he had almost denied him flat out.

When he had told her the news, her smile had faltered before him for the first time.

"_Lord Kirkland_," she had said, breathless, terrified. "_Will I never see you again?_" She hadn't even tried to stop him, almost knowing that he **had** to leave, even if neither wanted him to. That cinched it. That night he had had his servants pack up their things, and when the boat finally reached home, Arthur surprised his boss by introducing him to the woman that had kept him away for such a long time. The man had relaxed visibly, clearly approving.

It would take another few months for either idiot to realize just what he had been so approving of.

"_To have and to hold from this day forward."_

To Arthurs surprise, Marielle had taken his near-immortality rather well. She had set down her teacup, having gotten used to living with Arthur and preparing it often, stared at him openly and repeated his words to him slowly.

"Country? You are… _**oeur**_?" She had asked, more than a bit dumbfounded. "_Angelterre…_You are England Lord Kirkland?" He had nodded. "_C..Comment est-ce possible_?" He had sighed.

"I do not know my dear. I just am." Beyond that, the girl had been curious, viciously curious, asking him more questions than he liked to answer at once.

"What about France?" The little French woman had asked excitedly. "What is he like?"

Arthur had burst into laughter.

Things were just too good.

When he had finally proposed, they had been eating outside, surrounded by fairies, unicorns and just about every magical creature that could make it. She had taken to his friends rather quickly, having had an interest in such things long before she had met Arthur. His little friends distracted her anyway they could until Arthur had gathered his courage and begun to kneel.

He would never forget the look on her face.

Of course, she had said yes.

"_For better, for worse."_

Francis had teased him mercilessly.

How could Arthur make a big fuss about hating France and everything about the nation, and then go off and marry the first pretty, French girl that bothered to talk to him? Marielle, having learned the hard way just what kind of man her home nation was {and being rather bitter about it mind you} turned the other cheek when Arthur proceeded to clock him.

To the outside world, not much had changed between them after the wedding. They were still the same Arthur and Marielle that had arrived on the boat about half a year prior. She still kept him calm and smiling, and he still subconsciously put her first. Alone, however, Lord and Lady Kirkland were closer than ever. The happy words a sweet nothings never meaning so much before.

When it became clear that Marielle had conceived, Arthur moved them to a bigger house. His friends soon joined them, and they fawned over the expecting couple until it became suffocating.

But things were still much too good.

They had been blessed with a baby boy after nine hectic months.

He was a screamer, they learned the hard way, with Marielles brown, shaggy hair, and eyes a shade of green vibrant enough to rival Arthurs. He held her close as she cradled the tiny person they had made. Their eyes met for a long moment, and England couldn't help but fall in love all over again.

They had named him James. James Arnold Kirkland.

"_For richer, for poorer."_

For two months, everything was perfect.

For two months, Arthur was on the top of the whole damn world.

Two months..

After two months however, the call of war became too much, and try as he might, Arthur was made to leave his wife and child behind.

If only that had been all.

"_In sickness and in health."_

_Pneumonia_. What a disgusting word.

He hadn't known she was sick until it was too late. A servant had been sent to inform him at the very last second. Not a faerie. A servant.

The faeries, in fact, had vanished, ignoring his desperate call. They had left her in her bed, since she had died just the day before, and a servant had taken his son away from the lifeless mass that was his Marielle.

**Cold**. _Unmoving_.

She hadn't said she was sick in her letters…hadn't sent a faerie to collect him.

England wasn't sure how long it had taken him to start screaming.

"_For as long as we both shall live."_

The next forty-five years had passed in a hazy blur. Arthur could barely remember how to breathe and think, how to smile and certainly how to live. His visits with his son were far and few between, barely a word shared between them, and he left the boy to his servants, unable to look the lad in the eye without collapsing into himself. He looked too much like her, like them.

It was horrid of him, to do that to his own son; rotten and selfish and sick.

Arthur couldn't bring himself to breathe properly, let alone speak to and love James. As time passed, Francis had grown sick of the shallow husk that was the island nation, taking it upon himself to bully England back into the land of the living to grieve properly.

Francis forced his lungs open.

His breaths were shallow as his allowed himself to be distracted and doted on by the Frenchman. He was taking bigger gulps by the time his faeries had returned to him.

And then…There was Alfred.

The first time he had held America in his arms, he had found he was finally able to breathe properly again. Cold, cool air. Never as pure and clean as it once was, but it was there, filling his lungs and beckoning him forward.

He could never stop missing her. He visited her grave now and then, wondering idly if he should warn his son against the risks of loving humans and deciding against it.

Alfred is a smart boy. He'll fall for a woman that will last darn near-forever.

Such a sweet thought…Enough to get England away from her grave site and back to his second son, ever mindful that his first child was now a man, and probably didn't wish to speak to him ever again. Such a waste. It hurt Arthur somewhere deep to know that he had ruined a relationship.

But then…

"_Engwand_?" Alfred would look up from whatever he was doing and smile that heart melting smile, rushing over to the older man with more excitement than Arthur could handle.

He would always miss England too much, happy enough to die when he returned and Arthur would feel the same until neither could stand it.

Things were getting too good again.

"_Amen."_

_

* * *

_

The war was finally making its final laps when Arthur had received James' letter. He had been eager to return with Francis, back to England soon after, and finally back to Alfred as long as he could manage. His son had killed himself. He'd killed himself and it was Arthur's fault.

Dead on the same day as Marielle. November 19th.

He knew he would never hate a date more than this one.

Alfred was forever away, and Arthurs only possible solace was with Francis.

And Francis had chosen **that **day to be unfaithful and joke about the date.

He would never receive more pleasure from breaking the frogs nose than he did in that moment. He felt no shame in running from the man, burning his letters without even opening them and burying himself in the only person he had left.

But Francis had come chasing after him, expecting to weasel his way back in.

And, sickening as the thought was, Arthur isn't one-hundred percent sure he won't be able to manage it.

"It was the day my **wife** **died** Francis." Arthur manages to growl out, surprising himself when he is finally able to speak again. France stares back at him in quiet surprise, making Arthur wonder how long he has been spacing out. "You of all people should know how much that day bloody means to me." He reaches a shaky hand down to his tea cup, finding it heavy and hot. When had Francis refilled it? Oh who cares. Arthur sips it gratefully, rolling his eyes at the frogs rebuttal. He was drunk blah, blah, blah. He hadn't realized what he was doing blah. He wouldn't have done it otherwise. Arthur has to snort at that one.

Oh _please_. Didn't they _just_ go over this?

Francis continues to ramble, occasionally in French, catching Arthur off guard each time.

It feels odd hearing his language, her language, after such a long time without it. Francis speaks in a deliberately calming tone, choosing each word carefully and keeping his eyes soft.

Arthur hates himself for wanting to fall for it.

Is it so wrong to want to be held again? He likes having so much attention, as much as he denies it. He yearns to reclaim the lost feelings of love, the endless, cheesy sweet nothings and dopey, naïve sideways glances. Falling into anothers eyes and smiling until his jaw and his heart hurts. He wants it again so very bad.

But why…Why does the universe seem so intent on setting him up with Francis bloody Bonnefoy?

"That is exactly my point. You should not have been getting pissed in the first place. I was your lover, and I was beside myself with grief." He takes another sip. "Yet you couldn't manage to keep it in your pants for three bloody seconds." Francis allows himself to frown openly for a moment, setting Arthur off slightly. "What?"

"Do not say 'was' _mon cher_. Not so freely, as if it iz the future az well az the past." They stare each other down again, the younger of the two berating himself for having almost said 'I am'. Of course Francis had caught it.

"Do not tell me what to do." Quips England with a snarl, gratefully growing angry again. "I knew being with you was a mistake." Francis' turn to be angry.

"And yet you said 'yes' did you not?" Arthur pauses mid-sip, lowering his eyes to the dark brown brew with a telling sadness. Another mental flashback.

"I will..Aways regret the way we got together. It was tarnish to her memory." Francis says nothing, calming in response to Arthurs dejected tone of voice. "While I'll admit that you had kept my mind off of many things…Many heartbreaks…" A solemn sigh. "You create so many new ones that I can hardly consider it an improvement.."

"But it is an improvement non? You were so very sad. Not fun to pick on at all." Arthur frowned. "You fought me so much…But I was right."

_You need me. _He had said. _And I need you to need me._

Arthur shudders, not wanting to remember, not wanting to crawl back right this instant and demand Francis go back to making him forget. His pride is suffocating him for even considering it.

No…Not Francis…Anyone but Francis. Try to stay angry…He had to stay angry.

"At the time…I was nothing. I admit that yes. If you hadn't snapped me out of it who knows what I might have..." He shakes his head slowly. "But…there is only so long a relationship based on sex can last."

"But I am not with you for ze sex _mon ange._" France insists, looking for all the world as if he has finally gotten the right words together. Arthur however, narrows his eyes with vivid suspicion, wisely setting his teacup down before growling out his skeptical inquiry.

"What do you mean 'not for the sex'?" Francis smiles softly, charming in a subtle way, his eyes meeting Arthurs with reassuring softness. He reaches out a hand for Arthur to take, which the Brit refuses with a scowl. Smile intact, Francis laughs light heartedly…

And then, for whatever insane reason, he says it.

"Well _obviously_, unlike you, **I** can get zat anywhere."

Silence…And then…Something snaps.

Oh….Oh no he did not.

Certainly, he has not spoken those words so casually {or at all if he remembers what was good for him.} Clearly, however, as Francis continues to speak as if Arthurs brain hadn't come to a screeching halt after that last statement, rendering any attempt to quell the building rage within him null and most certainly void, he does not remember what's good for him, and he **has **in fact just signed his death warrant. England stares at France as the elder man continues to speak. Perhaps Francis is saying something smooth, something clever enough to make Arthur forget what he had just said. He had done it before, the silver-tongued bastard. He had woven pretty words into mushy magic, calming previous lovers and bringing them down from the vilest of rages. He'd even done it to Arthur when they weren't trying to rip each other to shreds. But right now, every word goes right over Arthurs head.

He refuses to hear it. Not a single word.

And Francis keeps talking with that stupid grin on his face.

Like he hadn't done a thing wrong.

Ooooooh how Arthur wants to yell now. Arthurs body is aching to throw down, his fists throbbing painfully as he clenches them; Body shaking. Vision hazy. Teeth clenching down so hard that a normal human would have cracked them several times over.

He knows he might actually murder Francis this time.

He stands suddenly, so quickly that it knocks his chair over, and seethes.

"I want you out of my household Francis. Right this instant." France blinks up at England in surprise. He also stands, moving to circle around the table.

"_Pourqu__-_" Arthur cuts him off. Francis freezes.

"Just get out!" he snaps, practically hissing at France's confused expression. "How dare you! You **abandon** me in my time of need to satisfy your _insatiable_ lust. You are unfaithful and do not even have the courtesy to **try** to hide it from me. You used my sons _**pain**_ as a means of controlling me and you **tromp** all over the memory of my deceased wife and child by making _**light of their deaths**__. _" Arthur looks beyond ready to kill; standing at the other end of the table and shaking like an erupting volcano.

It is then that Francis does the stupidest thing he can think of.

Looking directly into Arthur's toxic green eyes, France moves towards the fist that is aimed straight for his nose and-

"_Je t'aime_!" He shouts, turning his head in time for Arthur to stumble and deliver a weakened blow to Frances cheek. Arthur stares, surprised when the Frenchman holds his ground, and hesitates for only a moment more before straightening up and cocking back his arm again.

"**Liar**." He spits, shoving his fist deep into his targets gut. Francis hisses in pain, clutching his stomach and trying to catch his breath. Vision blurry, it becomes clear that Arthur isn't going to listen until he's torn the Frenchman to shreds. France smirks. Fine then.

Fight fire with fire.

Arthur moves again, possibly to knock the man to the ground and strangle him, but not before Francis lurches forward, knocking him back into the table. Arthur gasps in pain, glaring harshly. Francis is on his feet again, and is perfectly able to catch Iggy off guard with a roundhouse punch to the side of his head. Arthur hits the edge of the table on the way down, retching in pain and covering his bleeding mouth. Footsteps alert him to Frances approach. He fights the pain and rolls out of the way when a hand grabs for his hair. He grabs blindly for Frances ankle and pulls, sending him falling to the floor in a heap. Francis sits up; groaning all the while and glaring up at Arthur just in time to see the younger nation crouched angrily before him; just before the pounce.

Growling, animalistic and hungry, slips past barred, clenched teeth. Arthur has decided on something; rage having built up and festered over time spent apart—America as his only cure—and he has gratefully hit his limit. His eyes move carnally over Frances form, calculating where to aim with a predators intent. Francis' eyes glimmer with something just as awful; he smirks wildly. He is a lover before a fighter, but Arthur is going to have to be fought before he can be loved.

That sounds more fun anyway.

Green meets blue for a fraction of a second; a connection is made, an agreement of sorts between the two before Arthur kicks things off and tackles Francis back to the ground.

Now their 'talk' can _**really**_ get started.

* * *

Arthurs rage is his downfall.

The broken man can hardly see straight as he lunges and scratches at skin and flesh and eyes; he is knocked to the ground and beaten, hair pulled and clothes ripped without restraint until the upper hand is regained and he can rearrange a few things on the smug face above him. They kick and punch with more force than necessary; one out for blood while the other needs simply to tire the other out. Arthur screams as he is knocked into the counter, reaching blindly behind his back and grasping something, anything. A china cup is launched at France's forehead before he can defend, fragile material shattering, making the older man curse loudly and knock the table over onto its side, sending whatever was on it crashing loudly to the floor. France punches his lover without restraint as soon as he can get back to him.

Screaming, grunting, and cursing, things are thrown and break, knocked about and crash to the floor loudly. Neither is sure which of them is being louder, and both have lost the afore thought to care.

It is a miracle that Alfred never wakes up.

And so it goes, both men hurting the other as much as they can, neither maintaining control for long enough to end it. Arthurs seethes through blood-stained teeth; eyes red even though he pants heavily and cringes at the thought of moving from the floor. Francis, as if sensing the end nearing, stands tall, towering over the island nation and smirking.

**Bloody **_smirking_.

Had he waited, England could have regained his stamina and sense of balance, but Arthur is unable to handle letting France think for a moment that he has won, and rushes forward without thinking, prepared to launch another blow.

Francis catches it, taking advantage of Arthurs blind attack and pinning Englands arm behind his back. Sensing a chance, France quickly grabs the other hand before it can claw his eye out and forces it to join its brother. Arthur struggles in his hold; efforts weak from exhaustion. Francis kneels down, taking Arthur with him. Panting, but with his course of actions set firmly in mind, he props Arthur so he is bent backwards over his left knee, one of his hands still keeping those blood hungry hands behind Arthurs back.

Arthur would scoff, if he weren't so tired. His adrenaline high is depleting as France holds him down without giving an inch, and it is with a bitter growl of defeat that he conforms to how he is positioned.

They stare each other down as they catch their breaths, Frances blue softening as Arthur starts to feel the pain in his gums and hisses in discomfort. His green eyes never falter, defiant, even in defeat, and Francis can't help himself.

"_Je t'aime._" He whispers, bending down to capture cut, bloody lips with his own. Arthur turns his head and spits out blood, turning back to glare.

"**Don't.**" he warns, but Francis does, using his free hand to force Arthurs lips to meet his own. He kisses Arthur tentively, wary of the stinging cuts and slits, before increasing the pressure and taking his lips fully. England continues to struggle stubbornly, mewling and hissing in warning until France pulls away to chuckle at him. He is not so foolish as to attempt entrance, as Arthur looks all but willing to chomp his tongue off for even trying. Instead, he opts for more light kisses, peppering the bruises he had given Arthur and whispering nonsense in French at an octave that Arthur has to force himself to hear. Bit by bit, Arthur relaxes, albeit unintentionally, merely grumbling when Francis finally lets his wrists go and moves the island nation so he is cradling him in his arms, head resting against Frans shoulder.

Francis doesn't speak, which is odd in itself, but smirks softly.

"What?" Arthur narrows his eyes, gaze boring as deeply as he can muster. Good lord…If he could set France ablaze with just a look…

Francis sneaks another kiss in response, Arthur too tired to deny him this time, earning more grumbles, as well as the angry British equivalent of an angsty pout. He is still frowning when they part, but remains otherwise submissive, setting France on fire in a very _different _way than he would have liked. After all, Francis **has** to admit it;

Arthur is sexy as hell when he's quiet like this; pissy or not.

It is only when Francis' free hand starts to roam that Arthur resumes his struggling.

"Francis, please stop." He tries to push away, hoping his squirming will give France the hint he needs to cease the biting and licking he so clearly has deemed this an appropriate time to attempt. It isn't. "_Please. _I do not-" he lets out a whimper of protest that transforms into a full-fledged shriek when said wandering hand dips below the waist band of his slacks. "I do not want to-" He starts to panic a bit, regaining a bit of strength and managing to force Francis' hand out of his pants. "**Stop damn it.**" Francis sighs, going back to molesting Arthurs neck to less resistance.

"_Pourquoi_?" he whispers hotly against moist skin. "I 'ave missed you _Angleterre_." Arthur bites his lip, forcing back a moan and trying to shift out of the hold. "_It 'az been much too long.._."

"Because I –" he grimaces, pushing at Francis' face when those hands dip too low again. France looks at him curiously, brow raised in question. Arthur huffs, ignoring how cold his skin feels with Francis vacant. "I am not having sex with you on my kitchen floor, let alone my and _Alfred's _kitchen floor." He manages to sit up, wrapping a hesitant arm around the Frenchmans neck to stay that way. Francis smirks.

"We could always,"

"Move elsewhere? Stuff it." Arthur snorts, relaxing against Francis again. {If he can't stand yet, he'll sure as heck be comfortable} "I am still very angry with you." Another kiss.

"Then you should let me fix it non? Surely you do not wish to stay angry wit' me?" Arthur pouts again.

"You're wrong. I want to stay angry with you. I want to kick you out right this second and stay broken up forever."

"Forever is a long time _mon cher_. I am certain I will win you back eventually." Arthur doesn't respond vocally, almost nodding in agreement, which scares him into pulling away slightly.

"Why would you…Why would you say that?" France chuckles, taking Arthurs free hand in his own.

"'Ave you ever doubted us?" His voice is haughty, daring Arthur to deny it. The British man stares, shaking his head slightly in quiet denial. His words however, betray him.

"No…I don't doubt we'll end up together." Arthurs gaze drops to their hands, fingers entwined in his lap.

He has known Francis his entire near immortal life. The one constant in his fast-paced existence. His very best and worst friend.

It makes sense then, since there is no one on the Earth that knows him better than the Frenchman, to assume that they will end up together. Hell, the frog had even taken his blasted virginity.

Something precious that Arthur can never get back from him.

A fact he regrets, so very, very much.

"But I don't want to." He says solemnly, looking up at Francis with rare, crestfallen emerald eyes. "I don't want to be with you..." If Francis is hurt, he doesn't show it, instead matching Arthurs gaze with an equally intensity and holding the younger man closer. "Why does it feel like there are no other options? Now that I've lost Marielle.." Was there no one else that would love him beside the man he couldn't seem to escape?

No. There wasn't.

**No one would ever love Arthur but Francis.**

Everyone in Arthurs life who had met Francis had told him this. A fact Arthur had grown up believing. Still believed, as much as he wished to deny it. Loosing Marielle only cemented the thought deeper into his brain.

A fact that makes him hate his lonely life even more.

"Is there no other option for us? That doesn't seem fair-I don't-" Francis cuts him off.

"'Ow iz it not fair?" He asks in a low voice, speaking as if Arthur is a child. "I think it is nice, knowing who you going to fall in love with."

"I don't!" Arthur almost whines as he speaks, lifting his head to stare into his elders eyes. "How is this good for me? Am I supposed to wait around for you while you sleep around and enjoy yourself? Wait patiently until **you're** ready to love me? I don't want to be your fall back Francis!" There are angry tears welling up in Englands eyes. France manages not to look insulted, speaking with a tone that suggests he had been expecting this.

"_Je crois comprendre_. Trust me _Angleterre_, I understand. But you do not 'ave to wait forever. I will be all yours eventually. _Je promets._" The tears begin to fall as Arthur shakes his head in denial.

"But I **hate** you _so_ much Francis. Why does it have to be you?" Francis doesn't answer. "I don't _want_ to be with you, to fall in love with you. I don't want to live with you and marry you and raise your children!" His entire life they had heard those rumors, and now they were proving them true. He hates this. "But I'm going to, and I know it, and you know it, and everyone else seems to bloody know that I'm stuck being with the person I hate the most." He had even found someone else to be happy with, and she had been taken from him. "Is that it then? Must I welcome you back with open arms regardless? What about now? Am I supposed to just forgive and forget what you did to me, what you're doing to me, and what you will do to me with a bloody smile on my face? Just because I have nowhere else to go if I don't want to…be alone?" Francis doesn't answer with words, but with another kiss. Hard. Passionate. Dripping with so much meaning. Everything Arthur didn't want to hear in one horrid, little kiss.

**Yes.**

Yes he had no choice in the matter, yes he was going to forgive Francis and take him back, and yes, he was going to end up with the awful bastard because there was no one else.

No one else to love him.

Arthur looks away from Francis when the elder man breaks the kiss, wiping his tears away with his torn sleeve. When new tears quickly prove his efforts pointless, he quits, meeting blue eyes once again.

"Let me up." He requests solemnly. Francis cocks a brow.

"Can you stand?" he asks. Arthur shrugs.

"I'm not sure." He says honestly, allowing Francis to wrap a supporting arm around his waist as he moves to stand them up. Arthur stumbles as his feet hit the floor, forcing him to grab onto Francis for a bit longer. He sighs, leaning his head against the Frenchman's shoulder and shuddering. "I hate you." He groans. Francis smirks this time, wrapping both arms around England's waist as he retorts.

"_Je déteste vous trop._" He agrees, pulling the smaller man as close as possible, full on grinning when Arthur doesn't fight him. He has won this battle. "For now." He adds. Arthur sighs solemnly, but nods as best he can.

"….For now." He concedes, permitting Francis to tilt his head up.

"Do you forgive me?" He asks quietly. No. He doesn't. Not yet.

"Barely." He whispers against ghosting lips, wondering why France doesn't just…Oh. Francis was trying this again. The only thing he was good for. "I don't..." Arthur begins. Francis holds him firm when he tries to move again.

"You don't...What?" Arthur doesn't answer. Francis sighs. "Let me fix it _Artur_. You 'ave to let me fix it." Another kiss, soft, chaste. Fine then. Arthur can't help but follow Francis' lips when he pulls away, reconnecting them of his own, albeit bitter, free will. His cuts still burn; he realizes too late, frowning into the kiss and pressing harder. It stings as Francis tilts his head, pushing his tongue into Arthur's mouth and holding him until it's hard to breathe. Arthur hisses, grabbing fistfuls of wavy blonde hair and tugging harshly. Francis nips at his tongue and his breath hitches, heat rising between them faster than usual. Something snaps.

Francis was right. It _has_ been much too long.

He isn't usually this sensitive.

Arthur succumbs quicker than he would like, groaning loudly and letting Francis do as he pleases for once. Experienced hands feel him up knowingly, hitting all the right spots and giving England more than he can handle. Oh…_oh damn_… Arthur shudders into their kiss, pulling away to pant. The Frenchman has less need for air, and his lips locate their previous target, licking and nipping the bruised skin of Arthurs neck.

Englands eyes flutter open in response; he whimpers despite his best efforts, clutching to the older man to remain standing. Francis chuckles, licking a trail from the base of Englands neck, up to his earlobe and nibbling softly. Arthur gasps a bit too loudly, arching against the larger body and gazing hazily into the darkness behind them, lost in the moment. France goes back to Arthur's collarbone, biting a bit too hard and clearing Arthurs vision as a result.

There. In the darkness.

A set of captivated baby blues stare back at him from within the hallway.

Oh…Oh damn.

* * *

Surprisingly enough, it wasn't the fighting downstairs that had shocked the young colony from his sleep. Alfred had been awoken by a series of screams and yells and crashes; in the form of a nightmare. Shivering in the dark, Alfred shudders as the horrid visions replay themselves in his mind over and over. He is unable to identify faces, try as he might, but terror remains in its purest form. Alfred can feel himself crying, and childishly tries to wipe away the stubborn wetness. There is no way he can get to sleep again when he is unable to control himself, stop the quiet sobbing and cease his shivering. He is torn between opening his eyes to the darkness and diving under the covers. Neither would keep the monsters away for long, keep the ghosts at bay or convince him that the screams are just in his head.

Arthur. He needs Arthur right this instant or he'll go crazy.

He forces himself to be brave, to open his eyes long enough to throw back his blankets and find the way to his bedroom door. The wood just outside his door always creaks, startling the panicked boy into a relatively fretful mad dash down the dark hall to the room that usually held his father. He reaches the door, fumbling with the doorknob and barging in without knocking.

"Arth-" Alfred's eyes widen as he starts to panic all over. His eyes have adjusted enough, and he can tell that the bed is very much empty. He steps into the room anyway, stepping on another loose board and scaring himself all over again. He presses a hand to his mouth and starts to cry a new, falling to his knees. He is a ball of raw nerves, surrounded by the pitch and all the nasty things that go bump in the night. Why wasn't England where he always was? His stomach began to hurt in response, answering the question for him. Oh yeah…

_Alfred remembers now._

With a miserable scowl, Alfred pulls his knees against his chest and whimpers.

Would he have to go searching for his solace? Unless he knew exactly where Arthur was in the big house, America doesn't think he can bare the search. Trapped. Alfred moves his hand in order to scream for his father. He takes a shaky breath with his eyes clenched shut.

"A-" His scream is cut short by the sound of people moving about below. Heart racing, Alfred strains his ears to pinpoint the source. Whispers, few and far between, come from what America has to assume is the kitchen. Slowly, Alfred crawls his way over to the top of the steps and looks down into the candle lit room.

**Arthur.**

And Francis…But still.

Alfred's nerves begin to calm instantly as he watches France help England to stand. The smaller man looks a bit roughed up, the way he always did after a fight, and it takes falling into Francis' arms to shock Alfred into being able to stand. The whispers become more audible as the American starts to descend his stairs.

"….For now." Comes a voice that is undeniably Arthurs. Alfred, much calmer, stops descending, indulging a rather naughty urge to eavesdrop.

"Do you forgive me?" Francis' voice. Arthur doesn't answer at first, not until France pulls his face closer.

"Barely." England whispers in response. Alfred tilts his head to the side curiously, taking another step. "I don't..." Arthur begins, halting Americas descent. Francis seems to pull the smaller man even closer.

"You don't...What?" Asks the Frenchman with an amused tone to his voice. Arthur replies with silence again. "Let me fix it _Artur_. You 'ave to let me fix it."

And then he kisses Arthur.

Alfred doesn't hear himself gasp.

Something undefined rushes through the boy, something foreign. England kisses France back, locking them together with his arms and it is all Alfred can do to keep quiet. Arthurs voice comes out in ways Alfred has never heard before; funny, strangled sounds that don't sound at all disapproving. Englands face does new things as well, showing Alfred a new side of his father that he was never meant to see.

"Oh.._Oh_ _damn_.." Arthur is putty in Frances' hands; singing a strange, new tune and whispering words in a way that is light years away from anything he has done for Alfred. Said for Alfred. And Alfred…

_Just can't seem to force his eyes away._

He hears England moan, {not that he knows what the noise means} clutch desperately at the frog and reciprocate every little action Francis initiates with a vigor that has America in awe.

By the time emeralds flutter back open, America is rooted where his stands.

Arthurs gaze finally meets Alfreds. It takes the older nation a few moments for reality to hit, and for emerald green to widen in surprise and horror.

"Alfred!" Arthur hastily pushes himself out of Francis' arms, the later looking more than a bit perturbed mind you, rushing to kneel before his son and smiling as guiltlessly as he can.

And failing. Failing miserably.

"Why are you awake Alfred? Did we wake you?" Alfred, who had been staring rather intensely, very much transfixed by his father and Francis, takes an unsettling moment of time to respond, which worries Arthur. Reaching the same arms that had been wrapped wantonly around the Frenchman's neck just moments ago out to Alfred without the same intent, England rests a gentle hand on Al's face, rubbing the skin softly. "Hey there love," he coos softly, coaxing Alfred out of his stupor. The boy blinks, looking both lost and adorably dazed until his eyes find Arthurs and he speaks.

"Arthur?" he asks, voice weak from drowsiness and his tone almost disbelieving, as if he had been searching for him. In the dark? The boy must have been scared out of his wits. With a reassuring smile, Arthur nods, pushing the boy's fringe out of his eyes with his free hand.

"You alright? Thirsty maybe?" Alfred shakes his head slowly, leaning into Arthur's hand until the elder can feel the warm wetness that had begun to trail down from Alfred's eyes. "Oh you're crying Alfred…Bad dream?" Had it been a bad dream? Alfred can barely remember why he was out of bed in the first place. He hears Francis clear his throat, which Arthur ignores, and finds himself nodding his head a bit too fast. Arthur sighs, wrapping his arms securing around America and hoisting him up effortlessly. Almost instinctively, Al's own arms wrap around Art's neck, and he relaxes as soothing hands once again finds themselves rubbing circles into his back. "It can't be helped then. You'll sleep with me." It wasn't a question, which makes Alfred happy and France, who is against the doorframe as he waits for Arthur to finish with Al, scoff indignantly.

Arthur ignores him once again, humming gently. As he notices the figure in the kitchen doorway, Alfred's blue eyes lock onto France's, and he tightens his hold on Arthur. {Who doesn't seem to mind in the least, and continues to comfort him}

_Alfred's stomach is beginning to hurt again._

Francis, not too fond of where this is going, opens his mouth to complain, suddenly cut off as he notices the intense gaze directed at him. Alfred stares, long and hard, eyes shimmering meaningfully beneath messy, blonde hair as their shared Arthur coddles him.

It is odd, but in this candlelight, France finds that Alfred's normally innocent baby blues seem oddly..._**Threatening**_…Almost as if…

Feeling ridiculous, Francis shakes the thought from his mind.

It is just a trick of the light…Had to be...

"_Angelterr_-"

"Fetch some water Francis." He commands in a low voice. "Then make sure the lights are out."

"'Ow do you expect me to make my way around to ze guest room in zis darkness?" Arthur chuckles, which takes Alfred's never-ending gaze {glare?} off Francis long enough for the boy to yawn and nuzzle into the crook of Arthur's neck.

"I don't." He turns around, green eyes unmistakably soft, even in this tricky light. "Come up to bed with us. I'm just up the stairs." France blinks, but then smiles knowingly, getting to work and missing how the youngest of them had tensed. "Are you alright, love?" Arthur asks, making his way up the stairs slowly, to be as unjarring in his movements as possible.

"Hurts again." Arthur frowns; reaching his door and nudging it open with his foot.

"This has not happened for a long while, and now twice in one day? I think a checkup is in order...No objections." Alfred groans, mewling at the loss as Arthur sets him down on his bed and moves his arms away. "Just a second, I need to change..." Arthur fumbles a bit in the dark as he locates his pajamas, returning to find Alfred already underneath the covers.

"I'm sorry…" comes a meek voice, breaking Arthur's heart slightly.

"Why are you apologizing Alfred? You've done nothing wrong." He waits to hear Frances footsteps before moving to the door and calling to him. "Try not to trip and break that face of yours. If you're only claim to fame is gone, then I really **will** be your only option." A scoff is heard from the bottom of the steps, resulting in a haughty laugh. "Or maybe not." Leaving France to trek the rest of the journey to his room alone, Arthur moves to join his son under the covers, the later snuggling up to him immediately.

"I love you Arthur." He whispers. Arthur smiles tiredly in the dark and pulls the colony even closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"And I love you as well Alfred. Now try to rest, I'll be right here." Neither mentions that Arthur had a tendency of passing out before Al, mostly because the boy was so strangely tired tonight that he might succumb first.

"_Merde!" _Someone crashes into a wall, and both English-speaking boys giggle at Francis' expense. Arthur had earned it in a way for now, so the Frenchman merely grumbles as he finds his way into the bedroom at last. "Some 'elp you are." He snips, unable to see Arthur's protruding tongue or Alfred's sleepy smirk as he settles in, leaving the glass on a nearby nightstand after shutting the door. Ignoring his freshly re-instated lover, Arthur places a loving hand on Alfred's cheek and lets it rest there, lulling the boy back into dream land with a quiet lullaby.

Eyes gratefully adjusting to the dark, France strips down until comfortable, slipping into bed on the other side of Alfred and sliding closer to close the boy in protectively.

Arthur appreciates this and smiles in the dark.

"_I can see zat._" France whispers, reaching a hand over to pull the blankets up more onto Arthur's shoulders. Arthur makes to retort, but allows himself be distracted by the sweet gesture.

"_You are _such _a suck up._" Francis smirks, stealing one of Arthurs overstuffed pillows for himself before replying.

"_You are complaining?_" he asks with feigned incredulousness.

"_Not at all. Groveling is a good look for you._" Francis gives a half-hearted glare, replacing it with a curt laugh and letting it drop.

"_It was zis…Or explain to Mathieu zat 'is oeur is no longer speaking to 'is papa._" Arthur blushes in the dark, knowing enough French to catch the implication.

"_And just _what _are you insinuating with _that?" Arthur is smiling despite his tone.

"_Only what a beautiful child knows as ze truth._" England scoffs, annoyed at his placement in Matthews supposed fantasy world. "_They 'ave met non?_" Francis asks, referring to the North American twins with a curious look.

"_No…Now that you mention it…I should arrange for them to meet…They are brothers…_" he trails off, walking right into Francis next quip.

"_Oui. And once they warm up to each other...We could always make it official, non? If you insist on resisting my inevitable takeover._" He lets the implication hang. "_There are other ways to finish a family._"

Arthurs breath hitches, the Brit shocked to his very core. They had _just_ spoken about this had they not?

His heart begins to pound, eyes wide as he stares at Francis in the dark.

~"_**I don't want to marry you, live with you and raise your children**_."~

Technically, he _was_ raising Francis' child…as well as his own.

_Technically_, they _had_ lived together before; it would be easy to remedy the distance again…

_**Technically**__, _if he really was doomed to be with Francis, if everything in his life really _was_ setting him up to end up with the Frenchman, was there any reason to delay the inevitable?

Does Arthur have any real reason to say no?

Yes. Of course he does.

Francis is nowhere _near_ the_,_ 'settle down and raise a happy, little family with your childhood frienemy' stage of his life. Nowhere even close. It would be foolish to try to be happy with France when the man was still determined to be a perpetual bachelor/harlot. If Arthur would be his eventually, the British man saw no harm in playing hard to get for as long as possible. England eyes Francis suspiciously, heart still racing.

"_If you mean what I think you mean,_" And he did.

"_I do. Arthur, would you-_"

"_Stop that thought right there you big suck up. I am fine with sharing Matthew. Since…You know…However,_" Francis laughs a bit too loud, wincing when Arthur wacks him to shut his mouth. "_What?_" he demands, glaring.

"_We share a child already non?" Francis seems to find a bit too much pleasure in pointing out the obvious. "And a bed…_" he adds. Another wack.

"_Child present __**frog**__. And you only _just _got back into the afore mentioned bed, so do not mess with me._" Arthur is deliberately trying not to bring up how recent his last marriage, heartbreak and desperate love had been, or the relationship he had never had with his son, as he was certain he was too tired to properly fight with Francis anyway.

Oh...his poor son…

He hadn't done right by James. Arthur would never deny that.

The space where James should be was empty. A black mass of regret that should be filled for all of eternity with happy laughter and warm smiles…

It is almost as if he had never become a father in the first place.

Now that he has Alfred, however, he finds shallow comfort in knowing he can start over and do things the right way. Matthew as well, is a shy, gentle do over that Arthur can seek comfort in doting on, but in a vastly different way. Matthew would have two parents, since Arthur is forced to share, but Alfred is just for Arthur.

Alfred is his miracle find, his precious little colony and son, and he would try his very damndest not to screw this up as he had done with James. In all honesty, he did not think he could bare loosing _another_ son. He can not fathom the pain; mood dropping as he subconsciously holds Alfred tighter and kisses him on the forehead again.

Marielle…On the other hand, is a larger hole. She had been his first love, his only desperate loss besides his human parents, and Arthur had been ready to wither into himself and die; he still could, he knows, just thinking about her makes his stomach wretch and his heart seize tremendously.

Marielle…

He couldn't replace her…Not yet…And maybe not ever.

Francis has a good chance, in the long run…The **very** long run. Arthur honestly hopes he can fall in love again, that Francis had been right the day he had barged in on England's pity party and gracefully forced himself into his…Well…Bed.

But **that's**if you want to get technical.

"_Mon cher?_" Francis prods quietly, having watched Arthurs mood darken in the silence.

"_We can talk about this another time._" He says solemnly, gazing up at Francis in the dark. "_You've tired me out enough today._" He yawns.

"O_ui...Although...Not in a way that I would 'ave preferred._" Francis smirks again as he says this, prompting a snort from Arthur, who quickly follows up with another serious glare.

_"Do not think for an __**instant**__ that you are getting off scott free Francis Bonnefoy._" Arthur leans towards Francis over Alfred, practically hissing his next sentence. "_You are in for a __**woooorld**__ of servitude._" Francis' smirk only gets wider.

"_Do you think I came all ze way over 'ere without knowing zis? S'il vous oeur. I will 'andle anything you throw at me,_" Arthur snorts again. "_I can give you anything you want._" Francis insists, dancing along the line of joking and very serious.

"_Oh really?_" Asks England teasingly, eyes lidded with the demands of rest. "_Charmer_." He breathes out quietly, whispering more than before, although the elder man hears it just fine and nods.

"_Ah oui...I certainly can._" With that, Francis takes the hand Arthur had rested on Alfred's cheek and kisses the knuckles chivalrously. Arthur fights his blush off as best he can, losing the battle when France finishes the sweet gesture by leaning over Alfred and pressing their lips together. "_I can even give you things you never even knew you wanted mon oeur._"

It takes Arthur a good minute.

"_I-Imbecile!" _Arthur pulls both his lips and hand away with a half-hearted glare, resting the palm back on Alfred's face and gently rubbing the boy's cheek with the pad of his thumb. "_**Not**__ in front of Alfred frog! He-_" Arthur is hushed as a finger is gently pressed to his lips.

"_Is asleep, mon amour." _Before Arthur can protest, Francis moves in quickly to close the distance again, making sure to slip in a huskily whispered, "_Amerique is __**sound**__ asleep._" It takes a few moments, but Arthur eventually succumbs to the sweet kisses, and, happy things are back to how they were, subconsciously begins to run a soothing hand through the soft, blond hair of the not-so 'sound asleep 'Amerique'.

* * *

"When you return to England, 'ave one of your servants send word." Francis adjusts his coat collar as he speaks, shivering slightly as the wind decides to pick up. "If you like, you could also just send the servant." He smirks. "The blonde one with the shapely-" He is cut off by a half-hearted slap up-side the head.

"In your dreams." He quips in retort, adjusting his hat out of habit. They stand on before a large boat, set to start sailing very soon. A week had passed, both adults having decided that he would take the first boat home. Alfred watches from behind Arthur, clutching at his fathers pant leg again as the elder nations exchange temporary goodbyes. "If I do send the whole servant, I'll make sure to send the oldest, ugliest-" Francis makes a gagging noise, receiving a smirk from the Brit before turning his attention to Alfred.

"_Adieu pour maintenant Amérique._" He says, flashing a grin. Alfred manages a polite smile back. Francis reaches out to ruffle his hair, gaze meeting Englands who doesn't make any move to stop him.

_Alfred doesn't like that one bit._

They watch until the boat finally begins to set sail, France blowing a cheesy kiss Arthurs way. Arthur doesn't reciprocate it, shaking his head and sighing without disdain. Alfred tugs on his coat sleeve, grabbing his attention. With a flourish, Arthur scoops the boy into his arms and asks him what he'd like for lunch. Alfred answers, all the while watching Arthurs smile grow wider and brighter as they head home. When he means it, Arthurs smiles are the most beautiful things Alfred has ever seen. He loves them, just as much as his music.

"Papa?" He begins softly, gripping the collar of Arthurs coat as his words try to sort themselves out. And somehow…As his father smiles his smile at Alfred without a care in the world, the thought forms firmly in the boys head that Arthurs beautiful smiles might not be just for him. That someone else has seen this side of his father. The side that America had claimed for himself. That Alfred really is going to have to share.

_He doesn't like that thought._

"Yes Alfred?" Arthur tilts his head to the side in a rare bout of playful curiosity, leaving his son awestruck.

_No. Alfred doesn't like that __**at all**__._

"N…Nevermind." Says Alfred softly, burying his face into the crock of Arthurs neck until he feels the older man hold him tight. "It's nothing."

* * *

**AN: ****-**Drops dead from exhaustion. Omg…I'm finally done! I've never written so much. I hope you all like this chapter.

**A few things to answer:**

They did not fool around with Alfred in the bed. Arthur would never let Francis smooth talk him into that.

Yes that was freaking long as heck. I went crazy. {Technically chapters 2, 3, 4 and 5 are the same day and _technically_ could all be moved to the same chapter.} I broke like…12,000 words…Omg..

FrUk overload killed me too. Everything that happens has a point my dears! I promise.

About Marielle, she's not going to be a constant in every chapter I swear. Please don't kill me.

And lastly, Oh Alfred…Hurry up and rescue Arthur already neh?

We will be time skipping next chapter!

**Disclaimer: **A spoonful of yaoi helps the history go down! In the most de-light-fil way~ -is shot. But no. I do not own Hetalia


	5. Perch

_Alfred is alone._

America has never, and will never, be fond of silence. He finds too much silence to be sort of deafening, as it gives the boy too much access to his own thoughts. He tends to ramble in his own mind when he bothers to listen to himself; ramble and whine, and his thoughts grow more vivid by the second. Alfred blinks the images away on purpose when they become too clear; when the picture is so vibrant that he can almost reach out and touch it.

Reaching out never helps. His fingers grasp at air and emerald green vanishes like smoke.

It stings something fierce whenever he does it, and America prefers the dull realization over the painful snap back to reality every time.

'_Ar__thur isn't here anymore.__'_ He reminds himself.

_Arthur has gone away __again__._

* * *

Over the last decade or three, Alfred has realized a few things;

_Humans die off much too soon._ America has watched all of his friends pass away and be buried. He watches his new citizens as they grow, and waits sadly for his new friends to join his old ones, spending as much time with them as he can before they have to leave as well.

_This house is much too big._ Alfred is getting sick of walking around his own house time and again. The halls are long and dark and far too quiet. There are things in this dark that serve no purpose but to keep America rigidly awake. He cannot decide if the silence is worse during the day, when he can clearly see the empty reading chair, notice the design of the unused tea cups and hear the distinct lack of any _music_…Or at night, when his thoughts all pile on him at once, taunting him with the lack of warmth beside him, asleep or not.

_He can count the number of times England has visited him in the last four decades on only one hand. _There is something seriously wrong with that, Alfred decides, making his way downstairs at a snail's pace. It is raining today, so Alfred wraps himself in a quilt and perches on the window sill that overlooks his front yard. The rain is pouring down hard; zero visibility, but Alfred pushes his heavy curtains aside and watches the road like so many times before. As fruitless as this may be, Alfred gains a bizarre sort of comfort in sitting and waiting like this, as if his father will forget where to stop if Alfred isn't right there waiting.

Just in case.

* * *

America spends most of his time in town, helping out and distracting himself from getting too hopeful. One day however, with nothing better to do then rearrange his own home again, {It had taken a while, but Alfred had finally gotten into the swing of taking care of his own home without a living nanny.} he is carrying a few crates downstairs when there is a knock on the door. The new postman smiles brightly at America and hands him a letter with the royal seal.

Alfred almost drops the crates onto his own feet.

After setting down his load and tipping the man quickly, Alfred rips open the letter and groans. England's handwriting is nothing but smallish cursive. {Light years better than Francis' loopy curves and overly intricate signatures…But still.} He has the postman decipher the glorified scrawl for him.

"Looks like you'll be gettin' a visitor soon, kid." He announces, ruffling the boys hair with a smile. Alfred's mind is somewhere else entirely as his body bids the postman farewell and goes back to work, delirious for the better. His face hurts from smiling by the time he passes out on the sill again, eager to add a second hand to his number of times spent with the elusive Englishman.

* * *

Weeks pass before Alfred hears the all too welcome sound of a carriage turning onto the road in front of his home. Initially incredulous, Alfred stares hard at the approaching carriage from his window until the emblem and flag come into proper view and he has all the proof that he needs. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, Alfred rushes to the front room and throws open his doors, running down the dirt road with all his strength.

Finally.

"Arthur!" he yells on impulse, loud enough to scatter a few birds from their perches.

The driver looks up and sees the boy, pulling on the reins until the horses stop. Curious from the sudden halt, Arthur looks out of his window. When his eyes catch sight of the yellow flash, he smiles.

"Ah." he says under his breath, motioning to be let out. Alfred is still pretty far away, allowing the coachman to open the door for his master and help him down. "Thank you. If you would, do bring the coach closer to the house, I can walk from-"

"ARTHUR!" Said Arthur is cut off by another shout. He looks up and adjusts his hat with a cocked brow and a smirk, stepping toward his son at a casual pace.

_Finally_.

Alfred's voice is drenched with exasperated eagerness as he barrels forward, a near manic grin on his face in sharp contrast to the deep sadness he had felt just a month before. When he is close enough, he goes for it, tackling the surprised Brit to the ground and wrapping his arms around him tightly. Despite the wind having been knocked out of him, as well as his hat being knocked clear off of his head, Arthur manages to smile and return the embrace.

"Hello Alfred." He greets breathlessly, patting the boys back. "Long time, no see." Alfred mumbles something inaudible, burying his face into the familiar scent of Arthur and his now dirty suit. The older man laughs, and the two lie there on the ground as the driver pulls away, closer to the house to have an easier time unpacking his lord's belongings. There is a smile on each blonds face, different in size, but equal in meaning and it takes a lot of gentle coaxing for Alfred to even consider letting Arthur get up.

When he does consent however, Arthur quietly dusts himself off before turning to his boy and placing hands on each of his shoulders. "Let me get a good look at you." he says, and America tries his best to stand as straight as possible. England notes with approval that the boy he has returned to is taller and darker, evidence of the brilliant sun, and that his baby fat has all but vanished. Satisfied, he places a hand on the boys head, brushing the hair out of his eyes and back behind his ears. "There now. Much better." Alfred, who at the moment has very little concern for his appearance, simply nods before quickly moving to reclaim his hug, smiling again when he receives no complaints.

'Ah.' They think in almost perfect unison. '_**Finally**_.'

It is a long while before Arthur and Alfred stumble back across the threshold of Alfred's home, the servant England has brought, a man named Jack, dutifully greeting them and taking his master's coat and hat before stepping out to exchange information with their coachman.

* * *

Seated comfortably in the living room, Alfred drowns himself in his father as soon as the latter is all settled in, and as such, the following hours are filled with blissful catching up and chatting; about everything and nothing at all. Alfred bites his tongue more than a few times when he wants to complain aloud about being left alone, opting instead for more details about this or that, and Arthur happily obliges. His father had been quite busy this whole time, with his other children, though he keeps that part to himself, and is surprised at how few of his letters had actually made it across the sea.

"How unfortunate," he rests an apologetic hand on Alfred's head. "I had no idea." His son leans into the touch, and without being prompted, Arthur continues recollecting the past six years. Every now and again, England mentions Francis, either in his usual manner of irritation, or with the softer tone of voice that makes Alfred's stomach lurch. The younger blond can't help but make faces whenever the Frenchman is mentioned, and luckily for both of them, Arthur eventually gets the hint and avoids the subject. At some point during supper, Arthur asks America to steer the conversation, and Alfred does his best to avoid what he really wants to talk about.

_While it goes against his nature, something in the back of Alfred's head assures him that England probably won't understand._

After a while of every other topic possible, Alfred mentions that his maid has passed away, noting the look of surprise on Arthur's face.

"Marion did?" He asks, receiving a solemn nod in response. Arthur quietly gives his condolences and calls for Jack, requesting that he find Alfred a replacement. Alfred can't help but say aloud that he'd rather have Arthur home than have another care taker. Unfortunately, as Jack nods his head and leaves the room to write a few necessary letters, it becomes clear that Arthur hasn't heard him. America's smile sinks slowly into a frown. "Are you alright, son?" Asks England fondly, brushing blond hair back again. Alfred says nothing at first, instead leaning against his father's side and closing his eyes. Arthur takes the hint, wrapping an arm around him. "Alfred?" He asks again.

"I'm fine, England," Alfred begins, slipping off into a comfortable sleep _now_, before he gets upset.

"Are you sure?" A slight pause, and then,

"Yeah…I promise."

* * *

The following morning at breakfast, while America is happily between chewing his eggs and drinking his milk, Arthur informs the boy that he is going to leave him again in a few hours.

_Alfred suddenly finds his appetite__ very much gone, and __**very**__ much __unsalvageable._

"**Whyyyy?**" The obvious question. Alfred has to fight himself to not **scream** it at England. Arthur has the gall to frown at him before answering.

"Do not whine, Alfred. It is unbecoming. Besides, I have a surprise for you," he says, setting down his own fork for the moment. "I have to do a bit of traveling in order to bring it here."

_The look on Alfred's face is making his feelings on the matter _quite_**clear**__._

"You only just got here!" He whines again, this time on purpose, but Arthur just smiles at him reassuringly.

It doesn't help.

"I know, love. I know. Mind you, it is only for a few weeks,"

"How few is a 'few'?" Alfred cuts him off and crosses his arms. Arthur has the nerve to look a bit irritated.

"Two or three."

"But it's been six _years _since you've been here with me. Six!"

"**Alfred**." But Alfred isn't done.

"Why didn't you just go get it first and _then_ come see me? Now you have to leave me _again_?" Arthur blinks, honestly surprised. He had wanted to see Alfred first and foremost, and the rest had slipped his mind. America is moping now, and Arthur chides his poor manners before finally relenting.

"Alright, **Alright**. I will change my plans and leave in a day or two, but this _is_ for your benefit, so you could _attempt_ to be grateful." Alfred makes a face and is scolded again.

The young colony mopes and complains for the rest of the day, trying his father's patience until the older man threatens to take the surprise away entirely.

_Alfred couldn't care less if he tried._

Alfred is openly bitter with his father for a long while, eventually succumbing to the exasperated sighs and disapproving green gaze being sent his way. The young blond comes out of his room with a frown and makes his way to Arthur's. His father lets him in and they share a silent apology.

When bedtime rolls around, America asks if they can sleep together. Arthur cocks a brow.

"You are too old for that, America." His son protests loudly; Arthur maintaining his refusal for a full hour until the tears wear him down and he finally consents.

* * *

A few days later, America watches as England is helped back into his carriage. The older nation speaks with that voice that Alfred loves, though the boy does his best to ignore how much he wants to let the music soothe him.

"I will be back before you know it, Alfred," A pause to adjust his hat as the door is closed, and then England catches the look on the boy's face. "Wipe that sour look off of your face. It will freeze that way." Alfred does no such thing. Arthur sighs. "I have to leave now," he begins. "We shall talk about this when I return."

'_**If**__ you return.' _Thinks the boy, almost saying it out loud. He is stopped by a surprisingly gentle hand being placed on his head.

"I do love you, America." He whispers, missing the shocked look on the boy's face. "In case you thought otherwise. See me off with a smile." Alfred hates how _perfect_ that tone of voice is. "Please?" With a pout, Alfred relents, forcing enough of a smile to satisfy his guardian.

"Love. Ya." He offers dryly, but it is enough, and Arthur pulls his hand away. America watches his father's cart pull off towards the dirt road with a neutral expression. His face hurts from too much frowning, and besides, his expression is starting to match how he feels on the inside. Once England is out of sight, Alfred goes down to the village and spends the day with anyone willing to coddle a miserable child.

* * *

The next three and a half weeks are spent thinking. Alfred manages to get a lot of work done in that short time, distracting himself by helping his people in any way possible. He farms with them, letting the sun's heavy rays distract him from the cold at the base of his lungs. He visits with the animals, running races and getting into half-hearted fights with the more rowdy creatures. Alfred makes it a point to laugh as well; he laughs so much that it hurts and he has tears in his eyes.

The woman he is speaking to places a hand on Alfred's shoulder, brushing his hair out of his eyes and smiling fondly.

"You don't have to smile," she says. "If you don't want to." Alfred is surprised, but drops his grin almost instantly.

"Yes, Miss." He says. He walks with her to her home and bids her farewell.

_Alfred feels terrible after that. He hates making his people worry._

When Alfred finds himself alone in his too big house again with no one to talk to, no happy faces to blind him, the blond remembers that Arthur has gone away again. His father is off somewhere so soon, not there to sing or chide, cook or talk, and Alfred feels the _**hate**_ rush back to him. There is heat at the base of his throat like bile and he can't seem to swallow it back down no matter what he tries. Alfred screams a lot for those three and a half weeks. He kicks and breaks things; punches the wall until it actually starts to hurt and spends hours just thinking and thinking and _thinking _and **THINKING**.

Alfred hates being angry, hates the taste of salt and hates the way his new maid shrieks when she first finds him collapsed on the floor from over exerting himself. He ignores her when she chides him. He's getting pretty good at that, but then again, not paying attention gives him nothing to do but _think_.

The boy's thoughts are everywhere at once, racing and pounding out of sync. He can't stop his imagination from wandering, filling in blanks with the worst scenarios possible.

_Even so, Alfred's stomach is retching even more than his head is throbbing._

The faint scent of perfume. Cigars and musk. It mixes in with the cobblestone, and wildflowers. The warmth that permeates through the pouring cold.

Alfred throws up more than once, finally passing out just before sun rises.

His maid is at her wits end after a week.

'_Alfred must be a very sickly child'_, she thinks, ignoring the boy clutching his stomach instead of eating as she cleans up broken bits of china. She is going to quit soon, request that they find a caretaker with a bit more nursing experience than she.

Or at the very least, that they figure out where in the world the boy's father has run off to.

* * *

America is happy to see the woman go, even happier when the next one turns out to be a decent cook, and Alfred finds himself deceptively calm as he is handed the day's post. He has Hannah read it to him during lunch, nodding dully when she cheerfully announces that Arthur's carriage should be arriving within two days. Alfred bites into his bread, eyes wandering to the window dutifully. His gaze is more than hopeful.

_Alfred is _excited_. _

The young America wills the next two days to pass a quickly as possible, a subtle glint in his eye that is as terrifying as it is nostalgic. The boys has an air about him in these last two days. His stomach pains only serve to make him smirk behind his hand. A soft chuckle often follows.

_Alfred has an idea._

An _awful_ idea.

Alfred has a wonderful, _**awful**_ idea.

The boy is a bit disappointed in himself as he lets the idea swarm around in his brain. It is the only pleasant thought he's had in a long, long time, and he savors it like nectar. He calls himself a fool once, then goes right back to chuckling, safe from sight in his own room.

_With a smirk, Alfred wonders fleetingly if there are any bears nearby.._

* * *

When the carriage arrives, Alfred and Hannah are waiting inside. Alfred is perched on the window sill again, a hand holding back the curtain as Hannah smooths out her apron for the hundredth time. She is right to fret, Alfred figures dully, sparing her only a peripheral glance. Technically speaking, she works for Arthur, so first impressions matter. Re-arranging the table she had already meticulously set wasn't going to settle her nerves though, and Alfred attempts to relax her fall on deaf ears. Rolling his blue eyes, America's thoughts drift shortly to his surprise, and if his reaction to it will be worth what he is going to do to his father.

Time drags forward.

_Alfred is getting impatient. _

When silent prayers are finally answered, Alfred finds himself meeting Arthur on the dirt path again. There are a thousand words that he has within him, and each and every one has grown disturbingly quiet.

"Alfred," Says England with a soft smile, nudging a small, blushing boy forward. "This is Matthew."


	6. Ponder

_Alfred is alone._

* * *

The ride in the carriage seemed to stretch out indefinately.

Soft, violet eyes wander from the passing country side in the window to the shine on Englands shoes and back again. A young nation bites his lip out of habit, quickly correcting his mistake before he is caught and chided. He pushes his soft, wavy, blonde hair out of his face yet again and remembers to sit up straight. He rebuttons the cuffs on his sleeves once or twice and adjusts his collar. Again his eyes wander around the carriage, trying desperately to find purchase anywhere but his gaurdians face. He is doing his very hardest to avoid eye contact for now. The last thing he needs at this moment is for Arthur to start questioning him again; asking him what is on his mind until the younger male would have to come up with something to say that isn't a flat out lie.

For the last week and a half, England has been the boys traveling companion. While the older man was certainly not unpleasant company, the young blonde had found himself trapped within a private storm during their journey; the catalyst of which was none other than the man sitting across from him at this very moment.

With his mind brimming with thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts, the boy had slowly but surely begun working up the courage to finally question the Englishman before him. With a shaky breath he opens his mouth to speak,

"Matthew." Violet eyes dart up to meet the curious green ones staring down at him. Swallowing away his would-be sentence, Matthew quickly acknowledges that his gaurdian had spoken to him.

"Y-Yes, Mr. England?" Arthur regards the troubled look in his colonys eyes and offers the lad a small smile.

"Are you nervous?" He asks. The look on the boys face probably tells him that he is right, but not for the same reasons Arthur assumes. Matthew nods in silence.

"Yes, Sir." He says eventually.

"There is no need for you to feel that way." Matthew shoots him a curious look. "America might be a little rambuncious at times, but I am certain that the two of you will get on quite well." The small flicker of hope that England might save his charge from asking all of the questions building up inside of him without being prompted quickly extinguishes itself.

Oh. England thinks that he is worried about meeting his little brother.

Which..In a way...Isn't completely off. By all means, Matthew is quiet concerned about finally being introduced to the boy named 'America'. It had been twenty or so years since Arthur had first mentioned the existance of his younger brother to him, {over breakfast one morning in early January} and only a decade since he had been asked if he would like to meet the boy one day.

At the time, Matthew had not been plagued by an onslaught of distracting concerns, and had happily replied that he would very much enjoy such a meeting. Now, ten years later, Arthur had sent him a letter instructing him to pack his things ahead of time, as he would be coming to collect him within the week. Now that they are finally on their way...

_Matthew isn't so sure anymore._

While he was initially very excited to add onto his small family, his recent concerns are clouding his previous excitement. Matthew mulls over his desire to ask Arthur the questions that are practically begging to be spoken aloud, and considers the look on his gaurdians face as an important factor in his choice. Arthur is looking at him expectantly, waiting for a response to his reassurances. As if on cue, Matthews mind wanders for a brief moment. The young colony silently recalls that, as the date of this meeting drew nearer, England had grown more and more excited that the two of them would finally know one another.

Matthew had been told many things about his little brother before this day; his love of nature, his sunny personality, his huge appetite, his boundless energy. In a few ways, the two were similar enough, especially in looks aparently, that Arthur was confident enough that they should get along immediately. Experience had told Matthew that Arthur tended to be a good judge of character, and had done his best to let those _particular_ concerns fade away. With a small nod, Matthew manages a polite smile.

"Ah...Yes. Thank You, Mr. England." He says, earning a pleased glimmer in the Englishmans eyes. Arthur turns away from his charge for a few minutes when the carriage driver speaks to him, allowing Matthew a moment to let himself stare openly as he thinks.

'Mr. England'

Matthew let himself frown for a few seconds, his thoughts crashing over him once again.

_'Mr. England'_

That name, which had once brought Matthew feelings of pain and bitter resentment, was now tormenting the young colony in a different way. In these last few decades, Matthew has been doing his absolute best to forget his first days with Arthur; the overwhelming disgust he had once associated with that name, that face, that voice and that person in general.

To say that the two of them had not had a very pleasant first meeting would be a gross understatement.

* * *

Even if a million years passed, Matthew was certain he would never _truly_ forget his first night with England.

Matthew could remember that, after the battle had been lost, he was being suddenly snatched up; pulled from his fathers bloody arms and carried away kicking and biting, screaming and crying long into the night. He remembered putting up as much of a fight as he could that first night. He cursed his kidnapper, declaring that his father would be coming back for him before he knew it. He was screaming in French, sobbing and strugging his way out of Englands arms until the mans patience had worn away and he had been dropped to the floor. The sudden shock of pain had been enough to shut the young boy up long enough to meet eyes with the man that was towering over him.

In that moment, Matthew had seen nothing but Arthur.

Arthur, the man with green eyes, who had been drenched in rain, mud, blood and dirt, who had been breathing heavily, who had a fresh bruise forming just under his eye where Matthew had hit him and plently of new scars to show for his efforts, was staring down at him with an expression Matthew had been too angry to understand.

Looking back, Matthew could now identify fatigue from the battle, irritation with his new charges behavior, anger and pain too. He was menacing from Matthews spot on the floor; a tyrant that had ripped a child away from Francis; a demon with a heart of stone and the strict authority that had led his men to victory. He held Matthews gaze for an eternity, forcing the child into submission by eye contact alone. A shiver of fear had run through the boy then, which England must have noticed, because for the most fleeting moment, a hint of understanding flashed in those deep, green eyes.

When Arthur had finally spoken to him, he spoke in French so the boy could understand. He spoke in a cold tone that left no room for argument.

"_You no longer belong to him._" He said simply. "Understand this fact, child, or life with me will be unbearable." Matthew had stared up at him for another eternity, his eyes welling up once more as reality hit him.

**He would never see his father again.**

Matthew cried. He sat on the floor, covered in the rain and the mud and he just cried. Arthur left him alone then, he left him on the floor and went somewhere where he could block out the sobbing.

The years that followed had been miserable for both of them.

Matthew had, be it through a need for rebellion or simple stubborness, been very slow to learn English. He had been very uncooporative with his teachers, rude even, causing a fuss and sending them complaining to England in droves. When Arthur had gotten fed up with him, the Englishman had marched down to the boys classroom and declared that,

"If he will not learn, then he will work." His teachers had given up on him shortly after that, and Matthew had more or less been turned into a servant in his own home.

Every day the lad was put to hard work, and every day the fight drained out of him little by little. By the end of that year, Matthew had been reduced to general silence, and he moved through out his own home as little more than a ghost.

He hated Arthur in silence then.

It was rare that England stayed in his house for more than a month every year, an arrangement that both gaurdian and charge were quite happy with. The more England was away however, the more Matthew would be forced to think back to his days with France. The silence in his home was maddening, and the spiteful little colony found himself very lonely in the empty house.

It must have been the loneliness then, if Matthew was being honest with himself, that had driven him to seek out Arthur that day. Because of their unpleasant begining, the Englishman tended to keep his conversations with Matthew short and to the point. Matthew as well, especially with his limited English, had picked up the habit of answering with 'Yes, Mr. England' or 'No, Mr. England' as much as possible.

The day everything had changed, Arthur had been in Matthews house for about a week. The two of them had avoided each other for the most part, but the silence had been chipping away at Matthews hate until he couldn't help but go back on his own silent vow to never seek his kidnapper out. He finished his chores early that day, and had prepared Englands tea with actual care. He walked quickly but carefully to Englands guest room, knocked on the door and waited to be allowed in.

"Come in, Matthew." Had been the imediate response. As Matthew crossed the threshold, he noticed that the atmosphere in the room was much lighter than ususal. Arthur was relaxed, leaning back in an arm chair and reading a book with a title Matthew couldn't read. When the boy handed Arthur his tea, the Englishman had taken it with a quiet thank you and smiled at his charge for the very first time. Matthew had stared then, honestly shocked at how a simple smile seemed to change Arthur from a mad tyrant to a normal person. When England noticed the violet eyes that were trained on him, he assumed that Matthew was interested in what he was reading. "The King of Cats." he explained. Matthew nodded, decided that it was now or never, and asked what the book was about.

Arthur had beckoned the boy over and, in an act that must have been spurred by his strangely good mood, offered to read it to him. The simple decision to agree had led the two of them down a path of slow but steady healing. Arthur had read several books to Matthew that day, urged on by his approval of Matthews interest in literature, and eventually, the boy began to show an interest in reading them himself. England stayed for an entire seven months that year, teaching Matthew the English that the boy had steadfastly refused to learn before that day. As they spent more time together, Matthew found himself feeling less spiteful, and grew more receptive to his gaurdians attempts to teach him and bond with him; Arthur in turn, began to trust his charge more, his initial impression of Matthew fading away until the boy was no longer treated like a servant.

As they healed together, Matthew found himself wanting to relax around the older man, wanting to trust and forgive him as well. But try as the lad might, everytime his thoughts wandered to Francis, his heart would immediatley start to hurt, and the bitterness from before would surface once again.

**He would never be able to forgive Arthur for taking Francis away from him.**

The loneliness crashed over him once again, and he found himself growing silent around his gaurdian once more.

When Arthur failed to question Matthews sudden distance, especially when they had been getting along so well, the young colony decided that England would never care for him the way France had, and that thought alone was enough to make the boy start avoiding him again.

* * *

f Arthur was anything, Matthew knew now, it was observant and, to his ever lasting credit, when it came down to it, Arthur could be capable of extreme kindness. Though he had only seen it a few times in their relatively short time together, the young colony had learned to appreciate this small side of the man with green eyes.

On a cloudy day in June, England had roused Matthew from his self induced seclusion and taken him out into town. Matthew lived about an hours ride from the nearest village, so Arthur had prepared a carriage for them.

The ride would have been entertaining, but the far off look in Arthurs eyes had Matthew far too curious to enjoy it. They had pulled to a stop in front of an inn; Arthur giving instructions to the driver before ushering Matthew inside. The boy had been boiling over with curiousity as he was led upstairs. When they reached a room at the far end of the hall, Matthew felt Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. Matthew turned to look up at him, but Arthurs green gaze was focused solely on the door.

"Go on then." He said, turning the knob and ushering Matthew forward. When the boy turned to look into the room, he immediately gasped.

Sitting there on the edge of the bed, looking for all of the world as if he'd never been so happy before in his entire life, was Francis.

"Mattieu.." France held his arms out for his son, and without a moments hesitation, Matthew obliged the silent request. He threw himself into Frances arms and was immediately engulfed in the familiar scent of perfume laced with cigars. Francis was whispering things to him in French, tiny declarations of love and care that Matthew could barely hear over the joy that was invading his senses. They could have stayed like that forever, and they might have too, if Matthew hadn't just barely managed to catch the sound of a floor board creaking behind them.

Still holding onto France, Matthew chanced a small glance over his shoulder and looked at England. Arthur was watching the two of them in silence; an expression on his face that Matthew would never truly be able to name. With a faint smile, Arthur placed a hand on the doorknob once more and turned to leave.

It was in that fleeting moment that Matthew made another life changing decision for himself. Fueled by his shattered hate, his deep, sudden gratitued and his amazement that the tyrant he had met no so long ago would actually do something for Matthew that was he was so very obviously against, the boy pulled away from his father and found himself suddenly moving back towards Arthur.

"Wait!" He called, reaching out to take the Englishmans hand. Before he, England or France could question his motives, Matthew quickly pulled Arthur into the room, back over to France, and reclaimed his hug, his hand still holding Englands. Though he couldn't see it, he knew that the adults must have been looking at each other. Their eyes must have met at that moment;

Green met blue. Blue met green.

A silent conversation between old friends and bitter rivals. A quiet agreement must have been made in those few seconds, because Matthew could suddenly feel Francis reach out a hand to Arthur, pulling him closer so they closed Matthew in protectively between them.

A sudden rush of warmth made its way through Matthews body. He would have shuddered from happiness if he had any space to move between his old and current gaurdian. The feeling was odd, slightly foreign, but the young colony let himself be overtaken by the sudden rush of happiness.

Matthew had spent the next two weeks in a daze, floating around town with France, happily basking in the Frenchmans attention as much as he could. The strage feeling that had struck him before was still there, but Matthew couldn't figure out for the life of him why it was strongest when England was with them as well. They had, all three, been in Matthews house for a fortnight, Arthur occasionally allowing France to take Matthew into town again. Since that day, Matthew had found himself smiling at the Englishman whenever their eyes met and speaking in an amiable tone that expressed his gratitude. Arthur, appreciating the change, had taken to patting the boys head in greeting; his eyes and tone much softer than before.

Now that he had been allowed to see his father again, Matthew knew that being seperated like before would most likely crush him into oblivion. Although the first several days had been spent blissfully, the longer he spent with France, the more Matthew was beginging to fret about just how long he would actually be allowed to stay with them.

Despite the warm embrace on the first day, Arthur and Francis had been avoiding each other for much of Francis' stay. They were pleasant enough, Matthew supposed, greeting one another in the morning and bading each other a 'good night' when the time came. However, the longer Francis was in the house, the more Matthew could tell that Arthur was growing sick of the visitor. At the rate things were going, the young colony knew that it could be any day now that England would grow tired of having his enemy in his home, and would kick him out.

Matthew was horrified at the thought.

No no no. They couldn't be seperated again so soon, not when he was finally happy again. Not when he had finally begun to think of Arthur positively. It was too soon, much too soon, for Matthew to say 'good bye' again.

**He had to think of something, anything, that might convince Arthur to let him stay longer.**

And that something came in the third week of Francis' visit.

In the middle of the night, Matthew had awoken mid-dream. Finding himself thirsty, he had gone quietly down to the kitchen for water, and on his way back to his room, heard the faint sound of a conversation being held in Arthurs guest room.

Now...Matthew was no eavesdropper, but the sound of his name on his fathers lips drew him to the slightly open door before he could help himself.

"-still in awe-" That was France.

"-my own benefit-" That was England. When his curiousity had finally won out, Matthew had risked pushing the door open a bit more. The wood did not creak, and neither adult had heard him. Water still in hand, he watched them from his small vantage point.

Arthur was sitting on his bed, France in a chair beside it, and they were deep into a conversation that Matthew had missed most of. As he watched them, he noticed their expressions; the soft nostalgic hint to Englands eyes, the quiet fondness in his fathers. They were speaking quietly, discussing the war that had led to Matthews change of gaurdians in the first place, and France kept on asking why Arthur had let him visit now, after he had been begged at least a thousand times.

England avoided the question again and again until the boy himself was bubbling over with curiousity. Why? Why _had_ he done it? Arthur wasn't someone that did things just to do them. Eventually, something must have clicked in Frances head, for he leaned closer to England and smiled knowingly.

"He 'as gotten to you, hm?" he stated more than asked. England raised a brow.

"I have not a clue what you are talking about."

"Mattieu~" France insisted. "My boy has melted that cold heart of yours a bit, non?" When Arthur did not immediately deny his claims, Matthew could feel his own heart melting. "After all, what could you possibly gain by letting me see him again?"

"Be quiet." Arthur snapped. Francis obliged with a soft chuckle.

"Oui. But I must admit, I am..." he paused, as if speaking the words brought him pain. "I.." Now Arthur was curious, as he leaned in closer to the taller blonde.

"Spit it out, man."

"Thank you." He said finally. England was taken aback, and Francis' gaze softened even more when the Englishman attempted to distract from the red that had seeped onto his cheeks and once more denied that he had allowed this for anyones benefit besides his own.

It was then that Matthew understood.

It hit him then, in that shining moment of clarity, why that intense surge of warmth had hit him when the three of them had come together on that first day of the visit. It was also in that moment, that he realized what it was that he needed to do to keep them together.

**Family.**

He needed them then, all three of them, to turn into a family.

As he snuck back into his room, his heart racing with his epiphany, Matthew very carefully began to work out a plan.

* * *

The very next morning, France had woken Matthew up with plans to take him clothes shopping. With a bright smile on his face, the boys very first question of the day was,

"May we please take Mr. England along with us?" Though both men were initially suprised, the subtle glimmer in Englands eyes when France invited him, told Matthew he was on the right track. They boarded the carriage and Matthew prepared himself for a long day of steering things in the right direction.

When they spoke, Matthew casually included both men in the conversation. As they walked, the young colony made sure that their speeds matched. Every now and then he would let them find themselves alone while he payed a clerk or picked out sweets. The next few days passed like this, with Matthew stealthily giving them more and more time together until slowly but surely, they began to seek each other out on their own.

Every now and again, Matthew noticed them chatting by themselves. He would take note of the soft smiles and warm eyes, the gentle laughs and mentions of old times and he would feel once again that he was on the right path.

It was during the fifth week that Matthews efforts were validated.

He was once again on his way back from getting a drink of water when he saw the door open once more. Without hesitation he peeked inside. Just at that moment, he saw France stand up from his chair and make his way over to Arthur. They kissed once, twice, and before the third kiss, Matthew had already begun to sprint towards his room, the adrenaline carrying his feet swiftly up the stairs.

* * *

Matthew spent the rest of that visit feeling something he hadn't felt in a long time: Victorious. It felt good. Oooh boy did it feel good.

His efforts had allowed Francis to stay for an extra five months, until his own boss had requested his return. Though initially crushed, his father had promised to visit again soon, and write him every week now that he had permission. The nod of approval from Arthur had been enough for Matthew to let Francis out of their hug and back into his carriage. With a smile, Matthew looked up and England and offered to make tea.

"That would be lovely." Was the reply, and together they had gone back into the house that had finally become warm again.

* * *

In the present, Matthew mulls over his memories quietly as he watches England. Over these last few decades, his relationship with the Englishman has grown warmer and warmer. The visits he had once dreaded were now regarded with joy; something pleasant. Something to look forward to.

Along with these warmer feelings, a new one had begun to nag at Matthew since that first pleasant afternoon after France had gone home. Arthur had indeed begun treating him more like family, had been showing and teaching him things that Matthew could carry with him for the rest of his life. He was being treated with respect now; with care and with love. In Englands own way, despite the rough beginings, and the more than occasional tough love, Arthur was very much trying to show the boy that he was cared for. Matthew could see it when he looked into his eyes; he could feel it.

But with that said, he could also feel that new nagging, one that knawed on his heart and his head until it found its way in and nestled itself firmly inside.

Guilt.

Matthew was struck by guilt whever he thought about Arthur. He felt guilty when he thought about the way he had acted when they first met, the hatred that had kept him up at night. He knew it was silly to feel this way; he had been kidnapped after all. But despite his self-reassurances, the young colony could not help the guilt that crashed over him again and again.

While at first his quiet obedience had been a product of happiness, lately it felt more like he wanted to show the Englishman that this was the person he truly was; he was a good son, quiet, patient, obidient. He wanted to erase any memory of that screaming, cursing, angry child that he had first met. He wanted to start over. A new Matthew. A new family. And that's what was bothering Matthew the most right now:

His family.

Out of the many things that could be occupying his thoughts at that very moment, three people were most prevalent:

The first was France. It had been about a year since he had last seen his father in person, though he had plenty of letters to tide him over. Arthur had yet to mention an upcoming visit, and to Matthews chargin, he had not joined them on this trip either. Matthew did a quick mental run down of their relationship; as far as he knew anyway.

England and France had been doing well for quite a while.

Relations between the two were always hot and cold regardless of their personal relationship, something that Matthew had gotten used to rather quickly. There was even a two-year period a while back, after a war that the two had been allies in, where Arthur had steadfastly refused to speak with or talk about France in any way. France as well, hadn't bothered to explain to his son what was going on in any letters that came his way.

One day however, the adults had shown up at his home together, behaving cordially and acting as if nothing had happened. Despite the act, Matthew had noticed the newer scars on their arms and necks. He saw the mistrust in Arthurs eyes whenever France spoke to a woman. Whatever had happened, it had been big. Regardless, they were back together, and if they wanted to act like nothing had happened, Matthew would oblige them by not asking questions.

But that brought him back to the problem at hand.

Were they fighting again? The last time Francis had been mentioned, it hadn't been in a negative way. The last time he'd seen them in the same place, they'd been quite amiable with each other as well.

So why hadn't he heard anything from either of them about Francis' sudden dissapearance? Matthew was dying to ask Arthur to invite Francis over during their stay in America. Wouldn't it be nice to have all four of them together? And that led to Matthews second problem,

This 'America' person.

Despite having more pressing issues on his mind, despite knowing quite a bit about him already, the young colony was still very much concerned about the first impression he would make.

Had England told America about him at all?

How had they met? And how would he react to suddenly having an older brother in the picture?

Most pressing off all, Matthew wanted to know where _he_ fit into all of this. Compared to the rocky start he and Arthur had had, the Englishman rarely seemed to have anything bad to say about the sunny colony. For reasons he could not describe, this rubbed Matthew the wrong way. He knew there was no point in being jealous. Their beginings had been different, their relationships had developed in different ways as well. There was literally no reason to get annoyed with the way Arthurs eyes shined whenever he spoke about America.

And yet, here Matthew was, battling his desire to be a good brother with his inane, pointless little jealousy. And with that thought, he feels even guiltier. He hadn't even met the kid yet, and he was already acting like the brat he used to be.

Matthew chances another look at England, since he had shifted his gaze away after a while. He is still talking to the driver and discussing the estimated traveling time left which was about an hour or so.

Then...There was the final problem.

'Mr. England'

England himself, or rather, the barrier that had been erected between them since day one, was an issue that had been nagging at Matthew rather intensely for quite a while now.

It was a small wish of his, simple really, to the point of stupidity even, but even so, Matthew still wanted it. Ever since he had known France, he had reffered to him as '_Papa_'.

Because they were family. And because he had grown to love Francis enough to want him to know that he thought of him as family. After all of the trouble that he and the Englishman had been through together, Matthew had realized one day that it was the same with Arthur. The name 'Mr. England', which had started off as a barrier that Matthew took pleasure in, to a term of respect that they both admired, had reached its final form, that of a constant slap to the face.

It really was a small wish, to be able to call England something else, something more familial.

'Father'

Just the thought makes Matthew sick to his stoumach because he knows it, deep in his heart, that even though they are completely alone in this carriage, he will not be able to muster up the courage to ask for such permission. Possibly not ever.

Arthur as well, doesn't seem too terribly concerned with this lack of familial address. Perhaps Matthew has not yet earned it? Perhaps this is just how he prefers it? The third perhaps though, is that all Matthew has to do is gather up the courage and ask about any of the things that were on his mind and then he can finally relax...

If only, if only..

He releases a sigh subconciously, catching Englands attention once more.

"Still a bit worried, lad?" he asks. Matthew shakes his head.

"No, Mr. England."

"Is there someting else troubling you then?"

Here it is. An opening. Matthew opens his mouth to speak, eager little words poised at the tip of his tongue.

"W-Well I-" And then...Nothing. The young colony sits there in silence as his words fail him. His hands grip the edge of his seat as he tries to force himself to say something; _anything_. In the end, his would be chance is lost, as Matthew finally releases his grip on the seat; violet eyes brimming with defeat. "I suppose that I..Am just a bit tired." Arthur nods in understanding, but there is the slightest hint of disbelief in his eyes that makes Matthew feel a pang of guilt. Averting his gaze firmly out the window, Matthew quietly chides himself, mulling over a thought that would run through his mind for the rest of the day. Surely Arthur as well, though he says not a word, he simply _**must**_ be sharing the same thought as Matthew as they sit in the carriage in silence;

_Matthew Williams is a coward._

* * *

Of all the first impressions Alfred could have given his brother, Matthew certainly wasn't prepared for the one he'd recieved upon being introduced.

As they had neared the house, Matthew couldn't help but notice the grand, wooden front doors being thrown open with a loud bang. A boy with hair as yellow as the sun came running outside, followed by a woman in a simple brown dress. The boy had called out to them, but stopped short, having caught sight of the stranger beside England. Americas blue gaze was peircing through him suddenly; confusion, suspision, curiosity. Matthew had expected all of these reactions, but experiencing it first hand had been something else entirely.

As Alfred continued to watched him, Matthew couldn't help the blush that began to spread along his cheeks. Eventually, the two parties met, and Arthur introduced them with a smile.

"Alfred," England nudged him forward. "This is Matthew."

For about 13.8 seconds, all Alfred had been able to see was Matthew. His initial confusion had melted away into intrigue, and he lunged forward, looking the newcomer over from head to toe.

"You look just like me!" Highly uncomfortable, Matthew nodded and offered a small smile.

"H...Hello..My name is Brittish Canada..But..You may call me Matthew if you wish." As Alfred made his way to the front of his brother again, he caught sight of Arthur, who had left the two of them to their own devices and begun to speak to the woman in brown. Matthews eyes followed Alfreds, and he regarded the woman with a small smile.

Was she the house keeper? She must be.

Arthur was speaking to her about whether or not Alfred was behaving. She laughed and told him that he was. The was something pleasant about her voice when she spoke to him, and Arthur had easily slipped into his charming ways as they discussed her position here. For a few flickering moments, Matthew was worried.

Having developed a habit of shooing woman away from Francis' flirtations ever since that last break up, he had noticed how many woman Arthur attracted as well. Trying to push his worry away in order to focus on his little brother, he opened his mouth to speak.

"So, what do you-" Alfred wasn't looking at him anymore. The boy with hair like sunshine had his fists balled up at his sides, and his attention was squarely on their gaurdian. Confused, Matthew attempted to get the boys attention again. "I um-" Before the words were out, Alfred had moved away from him, quickly making his way over to the two adults.

"England! I'm hungry!" Arthur turned away from the woman in brown and smiled down at him, patting his head.

"Hm? What would you like to eat?"

"Who cares? I'm just hungry." Arthur laughed. The woman laughed. Alfred moved closer to Arthur and hugged him.

As for Matthew...He stood apart from them for quite awhile as they enjoyed their laugh.

When eventually, the party moved inside; Alfred made no effort to look at anything but England and as such, he seemed to forget about Matthew completely.

With a frown, Matthew followed them inside. Whatever had just happened, it had him lost, confused, and, to be perfectly honest, just the slightest bit insulted.

Despite this, he decided to give his little brother the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he, just like Matthew himself, he had simply missed his father?

Whatever the case, he decided to forget what had just happened and try to speak with the younger colony over lunch.

As the boy with violet eyes closed the door behind him, he had no clue how intensely this simple visit would effect the rest of his life, and just how much better he would come to know and understand the boy with sunshine hair.

* * *

**AN: **We're back, baby.

**Disclaimer:** Speaking of back, Himapapa returned to us on my birthday, how awesome is that?! Oh, and I still don't own Hetalia.


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